Belly-Roll

It seems that while I've been busy attempting to wrestle my muse into submission, a few brave souls have been inspired to lift their shirts and snap some photos. In fact, thanks to Zhoen, who bared her kitty-tattoed tummy after reading me talk about pinching belly fat - it appears as though we've started a little belly roll of women willing to bare their mid-drifts and write about whatever is inspired by the photo.

Care to join these courageous ladies over at Hoarded Ordinaries and 3rd House Journal? Leave a comment with a link to your belly-roll post.

But even if you don't want to bare all, I do urge you to at least go and check out their insightful, entertaining, interesting posts (especially Zhoen's, because, really, who can resist a kitty-tattoo?)

Fear of Scales Aside...

Every once in a while, it hits me - throws me for a loop - catchs me off guard (and any other cliche to suggest being "caught by surprise" that you can think of) - that I've had children. That I'm someone's mother. I'll be unloading the dishwasher while my son buzzes around in his bedroom (during what's supposed to be naptime) and I imagine that any moment he'll scream and I'll be left to deal with the disaster - that I'm the adult in the situation. It terrifies me.

My mother is a nurse, clearly suited for the job of raising children. Clearly able to dab wounds with hydrogen peroxide and bandage up cuts and determine how deep is deep enough to consider a trip to the ER for a stitch or two. But me? I'm lucky I survive the poop-incidents as well as I do. Heaven help me when my child is finally struck down by a stomach bug and I need to be the basin bringer, the vomit scrubber.

And so I load up the dishwasher and wonder what I've gotten myself into, just as a thud and cry comes from my son's bedroom.

Other times, things occur to me while laying on the couch, looking over at my husband. A wave of realization that we aren't who we once were anymore. That my body has been a vessel, twice. That it's not the same as the one that walked down the aisle to hold his hand. That it never will be, no matter how many hours I log on that treadmill, or however many crunches I squeeze or weights I lift - no matter how many pre-pregnancy outfits I can pull on and dance around triumphantly in - my body itself is fundamentally altered in a way that I can't change back, because it's not only a physical change - but a mental one. The way I see and feel about my body is fundamentally different than it was before I had children.

Before children, my body was bad. It was something to be beaten into submission and dragged to the gym. I was constantly worried about pinching (nonexistent) fat on my sides, and wondering if anyone else was noticing my thigh-spread when I sat on a couch. I ate like it wasn't a requirement for life, but a necessary evil, something to handle with great caution. (My husband might argue that this hasn't changed.)

But now, I stretch and walk and run, because it feels good. And I see my curves as good. Because they are. My hips have shifted, made way for birth. My chest is bigger, but not so large that it hurts my back or does anything worse than attract a few more stares at the gym - so what?

And yes, I still dread the scale like a child afraid to write his answers out on the blackboard at school. There's a fear of disapproval (which is an entire other blog post in and of itself) - but, I've realized over the past week that this new body is inherently good. That there's a softness to my stomach and chest that I actually like, it's perfect for small heads to cuddle on, and the once dreaded thigh-spread is now a warm lap for little bums to sit on and nuzzle nearer to me.

It makes me sad to think that the pre-baby me would've taken one look at this stomach and found a million places to pinch, to squeeze and loath and pout about in the mirror - without giving thought to what this softened body has done - who it has housed, nourished, grown.

Sometimes, I totally wish I could go back in time and smack her. And maybe I would, if she hadn't gone and gotten pregnant and stumbled upon the realization that her body isn't her enemy all by herself.

Whew

Here are my random, scattered thoughts on the first Saturday that I've been home in month of January.

Are we done yet?
Since Christmas, we've been running, running, running. Across states, between parents houses, to and from campus, to and from doctors, away from ice storms and blackouts. Finally, yesterday evening, we arrived home. And I think we're done. For now. I hope anyhow.

Holy Crap-Pit, Batman!
Yes, we're home and it's wonderful. But between our jaunts to and from holiday festivities, to and from Ohio, to and from Cambridge and then parents houses, etc, etc - we haven't exactly been neat in our brief stop-over's here at home. And we haven't exactly had the time to clean. Until today. So now, we're looking at a L O N G Saturday of cleaning...and I do mean, cleaning. The house has never been such a pit. I'm actually considering just taking a blow-torch to it and starting over. It's going to be one of those days where I'm dragging a huge gallon-trashbag around the house throwing away everything that isn't either living or too heavy for me to lift.

(Husband is currently cleaning out our freezer - we lost power for a couple of days - and he's now showing me how things defrosted and refroze, thus need to be chucked...)

Writing = Hard.
Finding time for it is, anyway. Time and mental energy have both been at a premium lately, and I can't seem to spare any for my "craft." I have enjoyed checking out some new sites that were recommended at one of the seminars I attended on campus though. For any fellow wordsmith's out there, check out Duotrope - for a ridiculously comprehensive list of all the publishing markets, with constant updates on response times from just about every literary (and non-literary) market out there, and other random things. It's a great timewaster, and (best part), it's free.

Scale say's what?
Yes. I try not to write about it here, because it's not the most interesting fodder for people to be reading - and it's so painfully adolescent, and I wish I were above it - but, I am very weight conscious. And now that we're two and a half months post-partum, I'm really hitting the "Gah! When am I ever going to feel normal again?" phase of dealing with my body. Sure, I'm able to fit into pre-pregnancy clothing, but the fit isn't quite right, and I'm still uber self-conscious. I actually think I feel better naked than I do all wrapped up in clothing that can pinch rolls where there isn't really any fat (for example, the almost ever-present back-fat that appears when wearing a bra - yet disappears into a smooth line when the bra is off.)

The fact is, I know that my body isn't bad (inherantly, it's good, it's strong and has given me two kids), but my perception of it isn't always good. And thus, my interactions with food become battlefields of - can I afford those calories? Or, how much time would I need to spend on the treadmill to counteract that bag of popcorn?

So, according to yesterday's weigh-in, we've got seven pounds to go.
(I'll try not to document this whole drama as it unfolds, but highlights may appear.)

And finally, Go Patriots!
Because, I simply can't bear for my football season to be over, I'm counting on a big win over the Colts tomorrow. Sure, sure, sure, everyone's saying this is "Manning's year" - but, you know, just about everyone picked LT and the Charger's over my boys too, and they came out on top.

Really, I need for them to win, because watching them is one of my favorite completely unrelated-to-writing distractions. And lately, I've needed that.

So, if your team didn't make it to the final four - say a prayer for mine. (And also, say a prayer that I'm not holding my daughter if they lose - I tend to throw things in fits of blind rage.)

And that concludes the wrap-up of randomness zipping through my brain at any given moment in time. Now, to deal with "The Pit" - maybe I'll post pictures when it's all clean.

I feel like a marshmallow.

Hovering over an open flame, expanding on the end of a pointed stick, crisped around the edges and sticky-melty-gooey within.

This image of myself has been sliding through my thoughts for the past few days. A slippery little feeling that I can't quite pin down. Could be that I'm approaching that time of the month. Could be the white puffy sweatshirt I was slumping around the house in the other day. Could be the smell of burning branches and leaves coming from my neighbor's fire pit last night - enjoying a bonfire in the midst of the unseasonable warmth. Could be any number of factors.

It's the life-long struggle of Me Vs. Myself. The logical, rational Mella and the one who wants to hide beneath a pile of blankets with half a gallon of ice cream and tell the world to go away.

I want to be invisible. I say mindlessly while flipping through a game of Skip-Bo with my husband, feeling all puffed and swollen and fighting the urge to pull my hair down over my too-round-face. But you can't be, I want to look at you. He says, shuffling the cards, peeking at me as I tip my head down to my arms and peek back.

I smile, but it's half-hearted. He's always sweet in trying to cheer me up when I'm being irrationally down. I ask if he has ever felt like a marshmallow. He hasn't.

While he stacks the cards neatly back into their box, I turn my words over again in my mind. I want to be invisible. They're familiar sounding. Have I thought them before? And as easily as that, a memory emerges. Clouded and dusty - one I've put in the far reaches of my mind and forgotten.

High School. I was attending a national conference for "The Leaders of Tomorrow" in the Hancock building in Boston. I was clearly not in my element - surrounded by boys in suit coats and button up shirts - girls in neat little skirts and sweater sets. All with ambition and drive oozing from their pores. I felt small and lost. I was only there because the representative from our school was chosen by an essay contest. And I wasn't one to turn down a writing contest.

I remember watching a power point presentation surrounded by Alex P. Keaton wanna-be's and regretting ever hearing my name called over the loudspeaker as the Winner.

This is where I first felt myself wanting to disappear. It was a hot little room crowded with teenagers lined in rows like a classroom and a speaker at the front with two whiteboards and a giant pad of paper. The speaker asked us to go around the room and introduce ourselves,row by row, seat by seat. There was the sound of clothes shifting, feet dragging, desks creaking - as all eyes turned to face the student at the first desk, and again as they moved down the rows. Faces turning. Feet shuffling. Necks craning.

I remember the eyes coming down my row - and the throbbing of my heart. My palms sweating. I wasn't listening to anyone else's names - I didn't care where they went to school, what sport they played, what colleges they were applying to. All I wanted to do was blink and make myself invisible.

Not only invisible. I wanted to be gone. An empty seat in the classroom. A lone girl wandering the city streets, heading for her train home. Gone.

Coming back to the table, my husband is still stacking the cards. I'm still slouched in the chair - and wondering why this feeling is emerging now, after years of feeling fine with being visible. My mind surges through a list of ways to fix myself. Go to the gym more. Drink more water. Get up from the table and do sit-ups. Now. Go. Do. Fix.

Instead, I push myself up from the table and come here. To type. To let myself feel what I'm feeling. I'm going to try not to over analyze or blame myself.

No, I'm going to just ride it out. Say shut-up to myself when I need to. And be invisible when I need to. Going forth with the knowledge that this too will pass.