More specifically, what sparked my return to running was my best friend from graduate school. After facing similar post-partum body issues (along with a startling dash of PPD), she talked me into signing up for a 5K with her. We were several years out of grad school by then, each plodding along in the plastic-coated business world that felt foreign to us, two women who’d spent some of our most inspiring years settling into the pea-green couch in our university’s English department, discussing Shakespeare and logical fallacies. We were submerged in work and baby fog, busy, surrounded by new faces and complex obligations. Living a half an hour from each other, we seemed to find less and less time and reason to see one another. Until running. Suddenly we had everything to talk about again – techniques, training tips, protein goals – and all the other stuff that we love so much in each other just folded right back in. I run because it’s too easy to let good friends slip away.
By Annie I started running again after my third child was born. It was those damn last 15 pounds that did it. After my first two kids, the weight just fell off. I didn’t exercise. I didn't diet. Yep, I was that annoying chick who just nursed my babies and lived my blissful size 0 life. But after stretching and collapsing a third time, my torso and thighs, defiant and defeated, simply gave up. I spent a few months cursing my way through bitter elliptical workouts in the basement before I finally decided I hated my body enough to run.
More specifically, what sparked my return to running was my best friend from graduate school. After facing similar post-partum body issues (along with a startling dash of PPD), she talked me into signing up for a 5K with her. We were several years out of grad school by then, each plodding along in the plastic-coated business world that felt foreign to us, two women who’d spent some of our most inspiring years settling into the pea-green couch in our university’s English department, discussing Shakespeare and logical fallacies. We were submerged in work and baby fog, busy, surrounded by new faces and complex obligations. Living a half an hour from each other, we seemed to find less and less time and reason to see one another. Until running. Suddenly we had everything to talk about again – techniques, training tips, protein goals – and all the other stuff that we love so much in each other just folded right back in. I run because it’s too easy to let good friends slip away.
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By Annie In terms of motherhood (and life in general), I’m usually a pretty big believer of the old adage, “My right to swing my fist ends where your nose begins.” Because, let’s face it, people get up to some seriously weird shit. If you think about it too much, it will upset you. Never has this been more apparent than when I started learning that women do all sorts of things with their placentas. Wonderfully creative but very, very weird things. They plant their placentas. They make placenta art. The "Tree of Life" is a popular design, but I'm kind of partial to something more random like this one. It doesn't have a name, so I'm calling it "Uterine Jellyfish." They drink placenta in smoothies. They also bake it in lasagnas. There are whole cookbooks dedicated to eating your placenta if that’s what floats your boat (despite the fact that there are no proven medical benefits). They encapsulate it. Those who can’t stomach the thought of chewing an organ their vaginas ejected (or can't stomach, you know, cannibalism) but still want the alleged health perks may have their placentas dried and put into convenient pill form. Listen, mamas, I get it, we all just want to love our babies and savor that stardust-covered transformative time when God or Gaia or science or whatever we believe in made us something breathtakingly stunning for 40 weeks. That simple but cosmic and utterly defining moment when an I became a we. We want to understand it and hold it and learn from it and, yes, maybe even taste it. So you go right ahead and do whatever wacky shit you gotta do to unleash your mama goddess. You earned it. But not this, OK? Not. This. You’re all special flowers, mamas. I believe that. Except that for some of you, I mean that simply and without qualification. And for others I mean that you are perhaps presently tanning your own human leather to make placenta bears to put in display cases in lil Piper Saffron’s nursery, and you probably need to take a long, hard look at yourselves.
Side note: When I saw my own placenta, my first thought was that it looked like the inside of a giant’s scrotum. By Mandy If one thing is certain, mamas, it's that pregnancy will forever change your body. This is me rocking out with my perky little pre-pregnancy boobs: And here I am horrified by the reality of my mom boobs: But I'll tell you what -- I always wanted a boob job when I was in my 20s and early 30s, so I'm considering these shocking jugs a WIN. My husband isn't complaining either. He's thrilled to have his hands full.
Five Reasons Why I Refuse to Pretend I'm in Love With my Body 100% of the Time I'm With my Daughters9/10/2015 By Annie Go ahead, throw your stones. Or statistics or anecdotes or whatever. You won’t change my mind. I refuse to pretend I’m in love with my body every single second that I am ever around my girls (or boy, for that matter). Why? Most simply, because it isn’t true. But also:
1. Recently, I was killing two birds with one stone, doing some ab work while chatting with my eight-year-old daughter Iris and my husband Lee as part of Iris’s wind-down routine before bed. I was holding a plank when Iris, sweetly, crawled under me and looked up adoringly. Then she giggled. “Your belly!” She squealed. “Why is it so squishy?!” Lee looked at me, apologetically. “Iris,” he said simply, a cautionary tone. “No,” I said, “It’s OK.” And it was. I explained that my belly was squishy because it had grown three babies, and that skin and muscles take time to shrink down, and sometimes never do. I was matter-of-fact, and I was clear that squishy bellies are natural and beautiful, but also that I sometimes miss my old body and clothes. I will never, ever beat myself up in front of my kids or insult any woman’s physical appearance. But I won’t be afraid of honest conversation in a thoughtful, safe setting. 2. I wake up at 5:30 a.m. to run before my hour commute and full workday. I snack on mixed nuts and carrot sticks. I ran my first 5K in 16 years this summer – and won. My desire to drop my pregnancy weight has birthed a new, healthier, happier version of me. Before my third child, I weighed 98 pounds but could get winded climbing stairs. No, I will not obsess, privately or in front of my children, over a number on a scale. But I will continue to set goals that involve my body. And I will model behavior that celebrates dedication, grit and resilience. I will communicate with my body and my routine that self-betterment is attainable, though it often comes at the price of hard work. Yes, I will also communicate this with my professional goals and creative goals and parenting goals. But I will not be shamed into hiding my body goals. I will celebrate them. We live in a culture that rightfully labels of childhood obesity an epidemic. Obviously, let’s take care and not be dicks about it, but also, let’s not be afraid to be open about our fitness goals and how they relate to body image. Pregnancy does some seriously whack shit to your body. And, postpartum is no picnic. We don't want to scare you off if you're thinking of conceiving. We just want to make sure you understand what you're getting yourselves into. Had we known these things before trying to get pregnant, well, we may be blogging about some indulgent hobby right now instead. Or, not blogging at all because we are poolside and half drunk. Brace yourselves. (And, maybe take some professional nude photos now to preserve your magnificent splendor before it's too late.)
1. Queefing Yes, whether we like to admit it or not, queefing is a fact of pregnancy. Occasionally, a rush of air escapes the vagina, causing an embarrassing horn blast that sends vibrations through your Netherlands. (And your partner's. You know you've queefed during sex and subsequently wished the mattress would swallow you up whole. Don't lie, this is a safe place.) Get used to your new vocal vagina because Ms. Queef likes to show up any time, all the fucking time. 2. Discharge When you're pregnant, discharge might start flowing from your vagina like water over Niagara Falls. You will think you have an infection: is it yeast? OMG, could it be BV? No. Just your new daily swampfest. Unfortunately, this won't necessarily stop after your baby is born. It may just keep right on flowing. Stock up on those Kotex liners, preggos. You're gonna need them. 3. #LBL Speaking of things that flow freely from your vagina...Not hip yet to the cool-kid hashtag LBL? Well, it stands for light bladder leakage, and there's nothing cool about it. During pregnancy, you may experience leakage problems due to all that pressure your little alien is putting on your bladder. I'm sorry to have to tell you that your LBL may continue way after pregnancy ends. Sneezing, jumping, dancing with the kiddos, coughing, laughing... If you want to keep your panties pee free and your vag from smelling like a city ally, stock up on POISE liners/pads. Truly the best product on the market for managing LBL. And, don't worry, you aren't alone. Apparently 1/3 of all women are pissing themselves, too! And half are under the age of 40! Yay! 4. Boob Probs Whether your boobs balloon from a perky B to a saggy D or deflate so much post-nursing that you have old-woman sag lines around your nipples, put the word "sag" on the front burner of your vocabulary. And, accept the fact that your boobs will change. Especially if you breastfeed. All that yanking and pumping and sucking does a titty bad. By Mandy I don't know what your pre-preggo style was, mamas, but mine was pretty much a combination of cute yoga chick/slutty party girl. Subsequently, I have a bunch of old mini-dresses that barely cover my ass these days. However, I'm counting it as a win because they do still fit on my new post-partum body (unlike my pre-preggo jeans that no longer fit over my hips.) What's a MOTY to do? Wear them as a shirt, of course! I'm not going to let this over-priced American Apparel mini-dress go to waste! I'm going to throw it over top of yoga pants, cinch it up a bit, and work it! So, maybe it's time to dig through some of your pre-mommy clothes, ladies. Get creative! Embrace your new MILF shape! Disclaimer: If this beauty tip doesn't work for you, too bad! A true MOTY hardly has time to perfect her own look, let alone care about yours. By Layah
11.25 p.m. My eyes are so heavy, and my heart is beating a little too fast. I should probably drink some more water. But I lie here, lost in my thoughts, my to-do list scrolling over and over through my tired brain, causing my heart to pound even harder. I have two days before we leave for Florida. I will never get everything done. I worry about the flight. I must be out of my mind to fly with all three kids by myself. I think about needing bottles for the boys. Wait. I'm supposed to be breastfeeding Little Hawk. But, I can't remember the last time I nursed him. What day was it? I know it hurt, I know he crawled up my body, yanking my nipple, desperately trying to get more milk. But, that last time? I don't know what day it was. I don't know when. I panic. I wasn't paying attention. Even when I knew this was going to be my last baby, I wasn't paying attention. Lying in the darkness, I want nothing more than to nurse him, caress his cheek, stroke the budding hairs that seemed to have bloomed out of nowhere on the top of his tiny round head. I want to kiss his forehead and tell him he is my sweet boy. I desperately try to think back, but my mind just scrambles pictures of the memories of the last couple weeks -- none that include that moment I need to find. None that can show me when exactly we were done. The tears well up. I squeeze my nipples in the darkness. I think I feel some wetness. Relief rushes over me like the touch of the wave on your burning feet when you finally reach the water after running through hot sand. I decide I will nurse him tomorrow, in the rocking chair. I will watch him and smile, and I won't go on IG or Pinterest or Facebook. I will make a point to remember. It only lasted a few minutes before he started pulling my nipple like a piece of beef jerky and climbing up my chest. No more milk. But now if this is the last time, I know we ended nursing right. Just the two of us...my last baby. By Scarlett.
Dear first-born, I wanted to take a moment to apologize to you on behalf of all moms and dads out there. You have definitely had it rough, sweet pea. You, a beautifully perfect being, were born, the first child to wildly inexperienced, overwhelmed, but good-intentioned parents. Hopefully, your birth was met with a joyful welcome; if it wasn’t, I want to apologize even more for something that wasn’t ever your fault. None of this was. None of the panic and stress-hormone-filled milk that you received from your mom who was woken up for the 6th time that first evening you were born. None of the angry jabs with the silicone nipple of the bottle your parents were trying to give you when you wouldn’t stop crying and hadn’t eaten for a few hours. None of the tightening of large hands on your incredibly tiny and fragile rib cage when you wouldn’t fall asleep after 2 hours of rocking, singing, and around and around the perimeter of the bedroom. Sweetheart, you deserved so much more than the incredibly high expectations your parents had for you. You deserved more than a schedule that you should have been eating/sleeping/shitting/performing by. You deserved more than the quiet moments of panic and doubts your parents had when other babies on the block were sitting on their own or sleeping on their own. You deserved more than having your parents look at you in anger and disgust for rubbing the all-organic food that they made for you all over your new outfit instead of into your mouth. You, my dear first-born child, were a perfect human being, in every sense of perfect. As adults, rarely are we ever given something so full of potential, something exclusively ours, that we can make into beings better than ourselves. Most of us try really hard and don’t get it right. We are human, after all, darling child, and what is human if not the very essence of fallibility? First-time parents want to know it all, they look for the very font of information on all things parenting so that they don’t screw up, so that you have the very best possible chance from the very first moment to be spectacular. But we do. We screw up and hurt you and scare you in the process. What we don’t realize is that by focusing on that one singular thing, to make you spectacular, we lose sight of the fact that you already inherently are. But we don’t know that at first, my sweet princes and princesses. You had to become our teachers. You had to teach us, through your patience and undying love and kindness, that we can’t let the fear of our failure as parents keep us from focusing on the brilliance of your perfection. If we go on to have more kids, to have seconds and thirds and fourths, they will have benefited from what YOU have taught us. So, I’m sorry for everything you went through in this mad laboratory experiment we conducted. And you know what? Despite your unknowing involvement, you have beaten the odds. You ARE spectacular, no matter how many times we have messed up. No matter how many times we made well-intentioned but shitty choices. You are a study in resilience, grit, forgiveness, and unconditional love. Again, I’m sorry. On second thought, I'm NOT sorry. You are perfect in every single way, darling first-born child, no matter who your parents are or what they did. You are a great gift. And for every decision we have ever made that has gotten you to this point in your life, we are forever grateful. By Mandy I married Brian for so many reasons. One biggie is that he made my life feel like an adventure. We're both explorers. Brian is a free bird and I have a wild gypsy soul. He's the funnest guy I know and being with him always made me feel like an adventure was about to happen. Some of our bigger adventures include road-tripping from Ohio to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and also running off, just the two of us, to elope in the Appalachian Mountains of Southern Virginia. But our greatest adventure by far is becoming Mommy and Daddy to Sofia.
It all happened really fast for us. We eloped in April, had an awesome wedding reception with family and friends in August, and I was pregnant by September. I always assumed I'd have fertility problems because of my unhealthy past, my age and general bad luck, but we conceived within the first three weeks of trying. We were shocked! My heart absolutely breaks for couples who struggle with infertility and I felt so blessed, so incredibly lucky. Soon after, I read some blog -- "What They Don't Tell You" about becoming parents. I read only bullet point out loud to Brian with a smirk, "You will fight. Even if you and your partner never fought before you had a baby, you WILL fight." By Scarlett
I stir awake. My eyelids heavy and hurting. I look over at the red lights flashing on the clock by the bed. 12:00. 12:00. 12:00. I inwardly curse the asshole who forgot to set the clock to the correct time. I gently reach my arm over a sleeping Roman to grab my cell phone. The screen turns on, temporarily blinding me and causing Roman to twitch. I quickly press the phone into my chest, dimming the light and peek at the screen. 2:25 am. Roman is only 14 hours old. I try to settle back into my new-mom sleep but my overstretched, sad, little bladder is begging me to get my tired ass to the bathroom. This would be my fifth trip to the bathroom since 9 pm. I tell myself not to panic, that it’s just my body flushing all of the IV fluids out of my system, which is also why I’ve been sweating like a dog all night. I even tried to open the windows earlier on in the night, but was yelled at by the night nurse for exposing my newborn to fresh, outdoor air. I was naked, wearing only pale pink maternity panties and a pad 3 meters long and just as thick. I gently, gently push myself up to sitting. I feel the saggy skin of my stomach fall over my underwear. I itch it. It feels like skin that has been confined for several hours: under too-tight jeans, underneath the back band of a bra, underneath the tops of socks. My abdominal muscles hardly work, so doing something as simple as getting up from the bed requires more effort than I had thought and the thought makes me really sad and so, so tired. I think of the effort that will be required of me to regain that musculature. And I’m not talking about Gisele Bundchen abs either; I’m talking about just enough abdominal strength to sit up from a supine position in bed, something that everybody else (including me) takes for granted. I shuffle over to the bathroom, cringing at the thought of how much it is going to sting once I start peeing. I pull down my underwear, give a cursory glance to my pad (not overly bloody), sit down, and pause. Good, at last something actually works as it is supposed to. Thanks, Kegels! I feel the now-familiar sting and then, all of a sudden, pressure. “Oh shit,” I thought. “My uterus is falling out!” I immediately clench my thighs together and do the biggest, strongest Kegel I could muster, but the pressure becomes greater. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. And then… All of a sudden… I feel something pass and fall out of me. It splashes in the toilet water. I let out my held breath. I open my eyes. I’m scared to death to look at what just came out of me. Flashes of scenes from scary sci-fi movies fill my head. What the hell just came out of my body? The pressure I felt in my vagina subsides. I delicately wipe and throw the paper into the basket, not wanting to obscure whatever scary object just came out of my body. I pull up my underwear and turn on the light. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. I look over, terrified, into the pink water in the toilet. At the bottom is a red circular blob, about 2 inches in diameter. It was a freaking blood clot. I stand there and look at it. I debate whether I should take a picture of it so that I could show it to my husband the next day. I start thinking of funny names we could call it: Clyde the Clot, The Red Marble, Ruby Tuesday. I’m losing it. I flush the toilet, turn off the light, and try my best to climb back into bed next to Roman. I look at his smushed face and kiss him on top of his dark hair. In this moment, with his teeny little body next to me, I don’t care that I can’t walk normally because my vagina is so swollen. I don’t care that I’m starving, but I’m too scared to eat because pooping will make my butthole feel like it’s going to rip apart. I don’t care that my muscles are so flaccid everywhere that I can’t physically hold my farts in. All that matters is that he is here, right next to me, the last piece to my little family puzzle. But for crying out loud, passing a blood clot that made me think my uterus was going to fall out? Peace out, yo. I am NOT going through that shit again. |
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September 2017
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