Our Mommyhood

Posts Tagged ‘Baby Weight’

By Julia, Staff Writer, It’s Not Like a Cat (@notlikeacat)

Ow. Shoulders, arms, back: hurt. Abs: moderately sore. Legs: hard to say; I can’t tell if they are more tired than sore. Returning to the gym full-force after a long hiatus is hard, and the road in front of me looks like one long uphill.

The summer I got pregnant with Max – now a toddler – I raced in two sprint triathlons, a 100-mile relay running race, a 24-hour mountain bike race and was commuting by bicycle more than 100 miles per week to work. (I also got married; you could say it was a busy summer.) I ran through all 41 weeks of that pregnancy and kept on running, and I tried to keep biking as much as possible. I thought for sure that I’d run through my second pregnancy, too.

Not so. I trained for a half marathon early in the pregnancy, tearing a hip muscle a week before race day. That race was out. I recovered and ran a half marathon in February, as I entered my third trimester. And then a month later I badly injured my knee. Running was over, at least until I gave birth and could get an MRI and surgery.

I’ve always felt a little self-conscious in the male-dominated weight room at the gym. Try going in there enormously pregnant, on crutches, wearing a hot pink top – the only workout shirt that still fit me. Weight lifting was all I could do for the remainder of the pregnancy.

After Ben was born, I wasn’t able to get to the gym very often, due to our family’s schedule and I couldn’t just go for a run because I had knee surgery about six weeks after I had Ben (talk about putting the “fun” in “postpartum”!). My surgeon told me to wait three full months before running again. Needless to say, my body does not look the way it used to.

I’ve been meaning to work out harder as I recover from surgery and we all get a handle on this two-child lifestyle, but inactivity is a slippery slope and I’ve been sliding down it fast.

Then FedEx dropped off a little package. Two shirts I’m supposed to be testing for a company I occasionally test gear for. Two shirts that I am required to work out in at least four times per week for the next four weeks. It was just the kick in the (softer, less-toned) butt that I needed to return to the gym – not just to test the shirts, but to get myself back in running shape after what will end up being six months off. Six months.

The first workout left me sore. The second one, sweaty but exhilarated as I discovered that I’m finally able to get through a whole spinning class with minimal knee pain. My body – softer, rounder, tighter in my clothes, out of breath faster – is taking a little getting used to. It will take a lot of work and motivation to get it back to its formerly fit shape.

But I know one day I will see my abs again, and more importantly, will be racing again. Even a local 5K would be thrilling: the crowd of runners, the excitement, pushing myself hard.

Thanksgiving Turkey Trot, I’ve got my eye on you.

By Amanda, Guest Writer, It’s Blogworthy (@amandaaustin)

I was dreading this appointment with my midwife for some reason. I had the worst running through my head — what if they couldn’t hear him? What if something was “off”? I signed in and waited only a couple of minutes before the nurse lead me to my first stop — the scale. I set my purse on the floor and stepped on the ginormous mechanical beast, holding my breath as the number flashed on the screen.

My husband tries to be helpful, but this time he wasn’t. He asked immediately what the number was and I told him. We compared it to last month’s appointment and did the math. The math was not pretty. I vented for a second while waiting for our midwife. How am I supposed to gain a normal amount of weight when I’m hungry every second of the day? She walked in and asked how I was feeling and we looked at each other and giggled. “Oh, just comparing last month’s weight with this month. I didn’t like what I saw!” I said.

She looked at my chart and back to me and with a kind smile said, “Well, you have gained 24 pounds in 22 weeks. A good weight gain is between 25 and 35 pounds and you’ve got a few weeks to go.”

That’s what she said. That’s not what I heard. I told her I try to eat healthy food — I’ve lived on snacks of carrots, apples and bananas — and she mentioned fruit is also good. I told her I love fruit, but how much can one person eat? She said, “Well, if you get tired of fruit, there’s always DRIED FRUIT!”

Dried fruit. Without one hint of sarcasm.

She measured my belly and listened to my little man’s heart beat strongly, his little arms and legs punching and kicking, his tiny body wriggling around inside me. She told me I looked good and measured perfectly. She sent me off to schedule my next appointment as if everything was fine, and I listened with a smile covering the disappointment I was feeling.

I’ve always been a dieter, a weight watcher. I have weighed within 10 pounds of the weight I was at 22. I’m short — only 5’3″ — so one pound looks like two. I’ve always been conscious and in control, but now that I’m decidedly not in control (of anything my body does anymore, apparently) I really am not sure how to handle it. So I did what any pregnant woman would do.

I cried.

I sobbed.

I was completely irrational.

I told my husband he wouldn’t love me anymore, that my son would be embarrassed of a few extra pounds on his Momma. I knew it wasn’t true, but the words flowed as freely as my tears.

I packed some salads, veggies and fruit for my lunch and fixed spaghetti for dinner. I ate a small portion and then an apple and some milk for desert. I walked on our treadmill for a half-hour (because I live in Florida and it’s July — I’m not stupid). I looked at the calendar to see how many more days I’d be eating apples and bananas for snacks.

I want what’s best for him — that’s the bottom line. Too much is not healthy for either one of us, but I have to provide enough to grow strong and healthy. The thing is, weight is a sensitive issue for a lot of women. It doesn’t help that celebrities are popping out babies left and right and then showing off their new bikini bods within a few months of giving birth. I’m no expert, but that doesn’t seem healthy. Wouldn’t you rather spend time with your newborn than at the gym getting your body back?

This is where I get stuck: What’s best for me and the baby. I’m sure it’s something many new Moms have to deal with. Nobody likes to hear they have gained too much weight.

This pregnancy and motherhood thing is new to me. Maybe I have a little more selfishness to get rid of before he gets here.

I’m trying to have a new attitude — instead of obsessing over what I eat, I’m going to think about how beautiful his heartbeat sounds and how blessed I am to have a healthy baby boy.

Am I crazy obsessing about the weight? Or should I brush it off and keep on livin’?

By Stephanie

I woke up a little pissed frustrated this morning because I’m still fat. I’ve been dieting for close to eighteen hours now and nothing is happening. It’s bullshit.

I’m kind of an “immediate gratification” type of a gal, especially when it comes to “not outweighing my husband” or “no longer sweating when I eat”. And really, if I am to be expected to live on spring mix greens, half an apple slice, and a tablespoon of water a day, I should think I’d be down twenty, thirty pounds by now.

I’m not really sure how this “dieting” nonsense works ,as I’ve never been fat before. I was thin my whole life until my body was invaded by many a fetus* and I thought, “Oh! Eating for two!” But I was totally kidding myself about that; it was pretty obvious I was eating for, like, ninety.

And then, to make matters even more weighty (groan), when I was on bed rest in the hospital for several endless weeks, the Gestapo nursing staff watched me like a hawk to make sure I didn’t so much as walk to the ladies room– so there went the exercise**. And (this is so obvious I really don’t even need to mention it) the hospital food was so horrifying and I was so worried about the baby that I really didn’t have a choice but to order pizza every other night. And eat it alone. In the dark. While weeping and berating myself.

Now the time has come to shed the sixty*** pounds of “baby weight” (which is really on the cusp of no longer being able to be legitimately labeled “baby” weight) and I’m not sure how this is all going to go.

Things I’ve never even considered eating before are beginning to make my mouth water. You know; things like fish. Baby food. Wheat germ. The bed spread.

I’ve heard it said that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Unfortunately for me, I’m not so much interested in being “stronger” as I am in “eating some Chinese takeout”.

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*Lest you think I have a quasi-valid excuse here, I was never pregnant with multiples. I have a three year old and an eleven month old. But still.

**Isn’t it cute how I pretend that I actually would have exercised had it been permitted?

***Eighty

Stephanie is a stay at home mom to Joshua and Ella. She writes daily at Mama Still Wears Gucci,where she discusses everything from a radical obsession with vacuuming the draperies to vying (peacefully of course) for total world domination.