The other day I was commenting on how I can’t believe that it’s been almost a YEAR since Hazel was born. In just two short months my little baby will be turning ONE.
Ho. Ly. Cow.
While that’s miraculous and special and wonderful all on its own, this post is about something else- the fact that it’s been a YEAR since my little girl made her way into the world and things aren’t exactly the way I expected them to be. This is true in both the parenting department and also the mom-bod department, but this post is about the latter. I’ll probably regale you with my pearls of parenting wisdom another time. Today it’s all about that ass.
“It takes 9 months to get that way, so it will take at least 9 months to get back to normal” they said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be so busy looking after the baby that the weight will just melt off” they said.
Those little tidbits have not proven true. Turns out you have to do more than sit on the sofa eating bakewell tarts to loose your baby weight.
Not one single pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans fit. I have very few clothing choices that don’t make me feel like a sausage. This is a problem in the UK because the women over here don’t appear to have embraced the leggings trend. It’s called athleisure people. You wear workout clothes as your real clothes because they’re forgiving and they make you look dedicated. Everyone just does it and no one talks about the real reason behind it. For the love of god get on board. Sometimes I really do miss America.
Some of this can be blamed on Hazel, but most of it is the fault of wine, cheese, bakewell tarts, well-meaning visitors with cake and my seriously lacking will-power.
Along with the rest of the masses, I joined a gym as a Christmas present to myself. This gym has a creche where you can leave your baby for an hour while you work out. I anticipated that having this hour to myself would be great motivation to exercise, but I was wrong. Instead, Hazel began a very intense phase of separation anxiety at the precise moment I joined, so leaving her in the creche actually had the opposite effect.
Due to this troubling turn of events, I can only go to the gym only when my husband returns home from work. This is difficult because normally by that point
I’ve already started on the wine I’m tired and the people who go to the gym after work are hardcore so I feel a little bit silly using the hot pink, barbie-looking weights in front of them. (Why do they have to make the light weights in bright, embarrassingly childish colors? I call for equality among weights!)
So needless to say, I’m not only the heaviest I’ve ever been, but more importantly I’m the most unfit I’ve ever been.
On one hand, I feel very empowered because any gain of 2 or 3 pounds in the past used to send me into a guilt spiral that usually ended badly with an entire carton of ice cream. However, this time, with quite a few extra pounds settling around my midsection and thighs, I don’t feel so bad. In fact, I love my body in a new, wonderful way.
I watched my body grow and change for 9 months while it created life. My body made it through more than 24 hours of labour and a particularly hellish delivery. I was able to keep my daughter alive for nearly 6 months using only my boobs (take that Bear Grylls). So, even though it’s not in the kind of shape I want it to be, it would be pretty harsh to hate on such a beautiful machine.
With that in mind, I do need to take care of myself so I am making a commitment to getting back in shape, even if it means giving up part of my glorious evenings and cutting down on the crappy (but also delicious) foods that I eat.
I don’t have a set plan per-say, but I have a goal in mind and all the experts say that’s the first step.
The goal is this: By March 2, I’d like to be able to run 8 miles and do 3 unassisted pull-ups.
So, yeah. Wish me luck. And don’t bring over any cake.
Any other mom-bods out there getting themselves back in shape? What’s your plan and can I steal it?