post-partum impressions, take one.

those were the daysThe way I were – fuzzy, but fit.

So, uh…I hate my post-partum body.

Two months and five days after having had Peanut, I am mostly back to my original size, but the body I once had (and loved) is a lumpy, misshapen shadow of its former self.

Where do I begin? I haven’t any stretch marks, but my stomach looks like a deflated black balloon, sagging and dark after having been stretched and distended for the better part of nine months. My thighs, once strangers, now chafe and rub like two sticks making a fire. And at least once or twice a week, someone comments on how much wider my hips have become. While I have never been busty, I loved my pre-baby A-cups (and my A+ cups during), but in such a short span of time, regular pumping/hand-expressing have already taken their toll. Once firm and perky, my feeders are now kind of squishy and a little bit sad-looking.

Nothing fits. I still can’t squeeze into my clothes pre-Aisha, but all of my pregnant-sized attire is either too big or too loose. My c-section scar alternately throbs and stings, so anything that fits at my waist or lower is out.

But it’s not just the *visible* after-effects of pregnancy that have me down. Continue reading

weekend wrap-up: happy to be here.

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Get. Out.

Initial surprise notwithstanding, I have to say I’m pretty freaking happy that li’l miss is coming into the world a good week or so earlier than planned.

At 38w1d, I’m extremely uncomfortable. I know I keep bitching and moaning about it, but as anyone who has made it to this point (and sometimes beyond) can tell you, the last weeks aren’t much fun.

in the nude…
Currently, I don’t like wearing clothes. I haven’t bought a stitch of maternity gear, so the the few loose-fitting items I wore in month six, seven and even eight REALLY don’t fit me now. I’ve resorted to a pair of tights and pajama pants borrowed from mum, and a few stretchy tank tops. When I wear my own clothes, I look as though I’ve been stuffed into them. It’s impossible to look cute now, which is why I’ve pretty much stopped leaving the house. I’ve always been comfortable in the buff, but now that I’ve moved into ginormous territory, I am happiest in just my underwear (and even those feel too constricting at times) with a sheet covering me for modesty.

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TMI tuesdays: nose candy.

che_guevara_picking_nose_1500x1500_wallpaper_Art HD Wallpaper_2560x1600_www.wallpaperhi.com (1)
viva el nasal occlusion!

I have a confession: I have become a serial nose-picker.

(Yet another!) one of the downsides of my pregnancy has been nasal congestion and the increase of all manner of yuck going on inside my nose. I have to constantly remind myself not to start excavating in polite company, and even as I type I can feel a small ‘n’ crusty wedged in the back of my right nostril.

I have never liked the feeling of anything at all in my nose, so I dedicate a good portion of my day to keeping the ol’ shnozzola sparkling. Tissue, fingers, cotton swabs – if it fits, it goes up and in to get the offending detritus out. I keep my nails long on purpose – not as digging tools (ewww 😀 ) but a deterrent; long nails and mucous membranes just don’t mix.

The backs of my hands are dry from all the hand-washing/sanitizing I do, on account of all the sniffer-scraping. I’ve always been fastidious about having clean hands, so as soon as my beak-cleaning business is done, it’s time to wash. Scrub-a-dub-dub…

I know. Grody, right? But I haven’t done a TMI in a while, and it’s one of the things that I can’t wait to be rid of once the wee girl makes her debut.

Don’t judge. Just pass the tissue.

missing you.

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I’m going to get someone to bring me a whole platter of this THE MINUTE SHE IS OUT OF MY BODY.

Was out to dinner with the boy on Saturday. Navigating restaurant menus has become tricky, because my first inclination is to either order steak or salmon. I like (nay, love) my steaks rare (warm and bloody, really), which is a no-no during pregnancy. Salmon isn’t on the always-avoid list, but because the mercury can be harmful to the little one, I’ve just not eaten any in the past nine months. At this point, I don’t think it would harm her, as she will be, as of this coming Friday, A FULL TERM BABY (woot) — but why take any chances?

I miss eating Brie. And all soft, unripened cheeses. I so miss sushi – salmon sashimi in particular. I miss drinking a full glass of Jacob’s Creek moscato (oh, who’m I kidding? I can easily polish off a bottle of that sweet elixir) and having a cigarette after a good meal. Yes, I’m a former smoker. We’ll see what happens with that. I know it’s a disgusting vice, and I’ve made it the last 200-odd days without one, so how hard can it be to continue on the path? I’ve got to say it’ll be a lot easier to maintain non-smoker status as the boy quit last summer…and if I’m planning on breastfeeding, the drinking and the smoking will have to remain a negative, Batman.

Know what I also miss? Exercise. Never thought I’d say that in a million years! I can’t wait to get back to doing Insanity and ZWow and all of my other HIIT. Exercise also includes salsa/bachata – and any dancing in general. I’ll likely have another 6-8 weeks after Aisha is born to be able to even THINK about moving with any intensity, but oh, how I dream about being active again.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve enjoyed having pregnancy as an excuse to pretty much eat and sleep with some abandon, but I also have to say I can’t wait until she’s here so I can get back to some semblance of the me that was.

I miss being able to see my toes. 😦

(post) week(end) wrap-up: blessings.

I’ve been a bit incognegro these last few days. I had a rather big writing assignment to complete, as well as a few engagements, and then there was my un-shower…so I had good reason for not blogging. Or, at least, that’s what I’m telling myself. And you.

first things first…
Last Friday marked 34 weeks. My little peanut is actually the size of a honeydew melon (finally, produce that I enjoy eating!) and will prolly remain about that size for the next two weeks or so. She has been transverse breech for the majority of this pregnancy, but lately has taken to basically standing upright (footling breech) in the womb, feet kicking my bladder. Fun.

high tea at the Windsor Arms…
What more can I say? It was High Tea. At the Windsor Arms. And it was lovely. We wore fascinators. And took pics. We looked great! We had canapés and mini-sandwiches, and quiches with fancy stuff in’em. The scones were OFF THE CHARTS (though I really could have done without the desserts. They were only “meh.”) My girls surprised me with a little mom-to-be evening out, including a GC for a mani and pedi. Aw. I’m not a spa-girl, but I will haul my heavy backside out to Bayview Village and get my F&Ts done.

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The fabulous five and their four fascinators.

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TMI tuesdays: does a body good.

pleasant-associations
It’s official. My boobs have gone from pleasers to feeders.

Since my largesse has made me an insomniac, I spend an inordinate amount of time browsing the innerwebs. I alternate between Pinning and researching all manner of baby stuff.

Peanut is due practically any day now, and I’ve been wondering at what point will my milk start to come in? Every time I shower, I squeeze and (wo)man-handle the girls in an attempt to produce some kind of response, but alas, nothing but dust. I started to worry that if my babe came early, she’d starve, ’cause her mama’s newfound tatas are only good to look at.

And then I came across this article, and realized that my technique was all wrong. Curious (and, I admit, dubious), I whipped off my top right there in my computer chair and began using the method described. Instant success. I couldn’t believe it. The secret is all in the hold. Previously, I’d just been tweaking the nipples (which, I’ve since learned, can actually induce labour) and coming up dry.

I can NOT get enough of my new trick. I’ve been trying it out as often as I can, marvelling at the output. Mind you, it’s certainly not gushes by any stretch of the imagination; it’s not even possible that I’ve produced a half-millilitre of anything. But still! My boobs! They make…stuff!

When I told the boy that my milk had started coming in, he gave me a confused look, and then put up his hand. “Uh…high five?” He offered.

“Yes!” I squealed, and smacked his palm. “It’s good thing! It means I can feed Peanut.”
“Oh. Awesome.” He nodded in approval.

I thought about actually showing him, but he freaked out at the size my stomach the other day, so I spared him the demo. I also opted not to tell him that I’d tasted it*. He probably would have run screaming from the room.

(*Oh, like you’ve never tasted your own? Please.)

kvetch me if you can.

Black-Baby-Crying
Suck it up, buttercup. You wanted this. 

It’s 5:37am, and I’m up because I’m wholly uncomfortable.

Today is 33 weeks. Peanut is the size of a pineapple (another one of my least-liked fruits/veggies) and I read someplace that this is around the time that she will settle into her final position before birth. She’s always been active, but lately her movements are bigger – stop-me-in-my-tracks shocking – as if she’s a rabbit burrowing a den for the winter. I’m feeling her feet (hands? elbows? heels?) dig into parts of my body she never bothered with before. I’m pretty sure my ribs are bruised from the inside.

Pelvic Girdle Pain has set in, making it near-impossible at times to walk with my legs together. I look like I just got off a horse, or as though someone gave me a good, hard boot to the crotch. I alternate between pain that keeps me awake, and pain (mostly from the back) that knocks me out. I’ve also developed Restless Legs Syndrome, which hits me hard at night. I literally feel as though I have ants in my pants (or under my skin) and constantly have kick and rub my legs and frequently change positions to get the sensations to stop. Continue reading