Battling the mean girl within

As I stand in front of the bathroom mirror before my shower and wait for the water to warm up, I commence my regular routine of self-loathing.  

I study my stomach in disgust, angry that it still looks 4 months pregnant when all efforts to disguise it are removed.  I woefully acknowledge my stretch marks, battle wounds from two pregnancies, angrily climbing their way up my overly-wide hips; a renegade mark snakes its way across my rounded lower abdomen.  I berate myself for my too-big thighs, calling to mind the line from Love Actually (one of my favorite movies) where the Prime Minister's secretary admits in embarrassment that her boyfriend left her because "no one would fancy a girl with thighs the size of tree trunks". The mirror starts to steam up, signaling that my shower is ready before I even get a chance to move on to my flabby arms and puffy face.

The bathroom mirror offers a stark contrast to what I see when I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom.  This is the mirror that I study myself in after I've gotten dressed and am ready to leave the house to brave the world.  This mirror seems to be kinder, and actually gives me occasional confidence in my appearance.  Sometimes I even allow myself to think, "Hey girl, looking good today."  But then, that's a dangerous train of thought.  Because when I permit myself that small morsel of self confidence, the fall is all the more difficult.  

The fall comes when I see myself in a photo or on video.  The fall comes when I see how I "really" look to others, when I've been captured in a moment playing with my son, unaware of the camera and not making sure all my clothes are arranged just so, that my stomach is sucked in and that my face is tilted at an angle so that it doesn't appear as fat as it really is.  A moment that I should be happy to have immortalized instead turns into another opportunity for my inner Mean Girl to remind me of how things really are.

And she doesn't let me down.  She pounces with claws fully extended, ready to rip my already bruised self image to shreds.  "Ugh, look at yourself.  How could you think you look skinny in those jeans?  You're NOT skinny, so it's impossible to look skinny.  In fact, you look pretty fat.  You were stupid to think that you might actually be making progress with your weight loss, baby.  Sorry to tell you, but you've got a looooong way to go.  No one can even tell that you've lost any weight.  That's how big you are.  You're so big that losing 10 pounds doesn't even make a difference in how you look."

When I try to do something good for myself, like sticking to my running program, she's there, too.  "You'll never be able to actually run a 5k.  Look at how you're struggling to run for 5 minutes.  You are so screwed when you get to week 6, because that's just straight running.  You just won't be able to do it, and then how embarrassed will you be.  You may as well just give up now.  You always knew running wasn't for you, just accept it."   

It's a constant struggle to silence this evil bitch that lives inside my head.  In the past, I took what she said at face value.  In the  past, I believed her without question.  In the past, her opinion was the only one that mattered.  It barely made a dent when my husband told me how hot I am, how attractive and beautiful I looked.  His words were no match for the suit of armor the Mean Girl had erected around my heart. 

The funny thing about this suit of armor is that it handily brushes away any positive thoughts, but readily and willingly accepts any hint of negativity directed at me.  Well-intentioned but poorly worded comments are easily twisted into grenades that blast holes in my confidence, repeating on loop in my head.  Someone from the office says, "You barely look like you had a baby!  You'll be back to slim and sleek in no time."  I hear, "Wow, last time I saw you, your belly was hugely pregnant!  Now it's not.  But you're still fat.  Maybe in time, you'll be in better shape."

But I'm starting to get sick of this Mean Girl.  She's worn out her welcome, and I'm starting to see her for who she really is.  How is it that she was insulting and berating me when I was in high school, skinnier than I've ever been or ever will be again?  How is it that she was making sure I felt like a huge fatty when I was getting married, weighing in at what is now my goal weight (a number that is still many pounds out of my reach)?  I'm beginning to see the holes in her strategy.

No matter what I look like, she tells me I'm ugly.  No matter what effort I make towards becoming more active and fit, she tells me it's not good enough.  No matter what I weigh, she tells me I'm fat.  No matter how well I ate during the day, she still sends me to bed feeling guilty about some treat or indulgence.  And I'm finally calling bullshit.  

Enough already.  It's more than enough.  Yes, I might still be "fat".  But I'm truly making an effort to get down to a healthier weight.  I have never stuck to a self-imposed exercise program for longer than 4 weeks, and the fact that I'll soon be entering Week 5 of C25K kicks SO much ass.

So when Mean Girl tells me I'll be screwed when I reach Week 6, I respond with, "That's ok.  I'll just do Week 5 until I feel ready to move on."

When Mean Girl tells me the running isn't helping me look any better, I say, "Ah well, doesn't matter.  I'm really doing it because I'm trying to learn to enjoy exercise."

When Mean Girl tells me my stretch marks are hideous, I choke back tears and tell her to shut up because the only person besides me who sees them doesn't care anyway.

When Mean Girl points out someone else who is skinnier, prettier, better dressed than me, I remind her that I'm doing my best and that that other person has different battles.  

Since I'm just starting to fight back, Mean Girl is still pretty strong.  A lot of times she just laughs at my feeble efforts to deflect her jabs.  But they're starting to sink in.  I can feel it.  I'm starting to believe that, just maybe, the things I say in return are true.  

And that's the real battle.                          

Couch (Potato) to 5K

When I got pregnant with L, I was just about to get started on a health kick.  I had finally gotten fed up with the excess flab I was carrying around with me and decided that I'd join Weight Watchers and start training to run a 5K using the Couch to 5K program.  But then I learned I was no longer walking around alone and that positive pregnancy test was like a Get Out of Jail Free card.

Having dodged that bullet, I happily settled into my "I'll get to that after the baby is born" attitude towards eating right and exercising and ate myself stupid for the duration of my pregnancy.  For good measure, I did as little physical activity as possible.  And boy was it good while it lasted.  I figured I was fine because I'd planned on nursing L and had always heard that breastfeeding was to calories what I was to pizza or puppy chow (that amazing stuff you make with Chex, chocolate, peanut butter and powdered sugar).  Basically, I thought that nursing would torch the fat and flab from my body with ease.  

Then L was born.  And I found out that, unfortunately, I was sold a bill of goods on the nursing thing.  After dropping a fraction of the weight I'd gained - mostly just the weight consisting of L and his placenta - I plateaued at a nauseatingly high number.  So, I recommited myself to working out and Weight Watchers. 

I actually did pretty good at first.  I started out doing the 30 Day Shred with Jillian Michaels, but then I hurt my knee because my body was like "WOAH there.  Are you saying we're supposed to be active??"  So too much, too soon.  Then I decided to try different Walking for Weightloss programs with Leslie Sansone.  I loved them.  They were challenging but achievable.  Plus, Leslie was just so nice.  I liked her encouraging, friendly style WAY more than Jillian's barky "You suck, you big fatty" attitude.

Meanwhile, I was doing well with Weight Watchers.  I was counting my points faithfully and was seeing results in the form of a steadily decreasing number on the scale. 

But once I returned to work, the going got tough.  For the first couple weeks, I would come home and dutifully put on my sneaks and walk with Leslie.  I kept my Weight Watchers online points tracker up on my computer at all times and tracked everything I ate.  Gradually, though, I grew weary of counting points and logging everything I ate.  I came home from work exhausted because L was waking 4 to 5 times per night, and the last thing I wanted to do was change my clothes and exercise.  Then my 3 month subscription to Weight Watchers ran out and I didn't want to pay to continue. 

So, Weight Watchers and exercising went by the wayside.  And then I got pregnant with C.  "Well there you go," I said to myself.  "I can't diet anymore and I'm not supposed to start a new workout program so I'll just try to control my eating and not be a total couch potato and I'll be ok." 

And even though I didn't pig out nearly as much as I did with L, I still ate whatever I wanted.  Lucky for me, C was smaller than L and I didn't get fat in the face as I had with L.  So I looked pretty ok, even in my third trimester. 

Towards the end of my pregnancy with C, I decided that I wanted to try the Couch to 5K program I had heard so much about.  I was hoping that I wouldn't have to do Weight Watchers again, telling myself that just because nursing didn't drop the pounds the first time didn't mean it wouldn't do it the second time around.  Maybe just throwing in the exercise component would turn things around. 

Well, of course that wasn't the case.  Even though I gained about 15 pounds less with C, I still somehow plateaued at the same weight I did with L.  Very depressing.  So I grudgingly signed up for Weight Watchers and made a deal with my brother to run a 5K with me in June.  Just barely enough time to finish the C25K program.

As soon as I got cleared by my doctor to exercise, I put on my workout gear and grabbed my iPod.  It didn't even cross my mind that perhaps a complete novice runner should not start trying to run outside when it was 35 degrees outside.

The C25K program is basically this: 5 minutes of brisk walking to warm up, then alternating running and walking intervals, then 5 minutes of walking to cool down.  There is an outdoor track approximately 5 minutes from the house, so I decide to walk up there then do my running/walking on the track.

About 25 seconds into the warm-up walk, I was ready to quit.  My throat was starting to burn from the frigid air, and my nose was cold.  It was not looking good.  But I decided to push past it, my brother's voice ringing in my head: "You just have to realize that it's going to really suck for the first few weeks while your body gets used to it."  And realize I did.

When I got to the track, it felt like I had been walking for an hour.  I had no clue how I was going to summon the energy to run.  With my C25K app prompting me, I proceeded to start my intervals.  Half-way through the first running interval, one solitary thought was playing on loop in my head.  "This sucks this sucks this sucks this sucks..."  Even my running playlist was not enough to distract me.

The walking intervals could not come quick enough.  By the time my second running interval rolled around, my lungs felt like they were simultaneously burning and getting frostbitten.  I don't know how that's even possible, but that's what it felt like.

At first, my only track companions were an old man who was lapping me like it was his job (and giving me concerned looks every time he passed me) and a couple who was walking at a glacial pace on the inside lanes.  Since I had my earbuds in, I couldn't hear how hard I was breathing, but judging by how it felt, I must have sounded like I was seconds away from dropping dead at any time.

Then after a few minutes, a younger guy started walking on the track.  He was likely about my age, give or take a couple years.  If I could describe him in the most politically correct way possible, I'd call him a wigger.  Both legs of his sweatpants were rolled up to his knees and his sweatshirt had "FUBU" emblazoned on the front.  He had a ginormous "diamond" (or wanna-be diamond) in his ear.

Unfortunately, almost every time I was cued by my app to run, I was either right next to him or right behind him.  This made it look like I was running to impress him or otherwise get his attention.  He began to watch me as I passed him, which gave me mixed feelings.  I felt a little creepy about it, since I am an old married lady and don't even think about attracting attention from strange men anymore.  Also, I am far from looking my best, so I don't even really feel like it's possible that said strange men would look at me and think, "Wow, what a babe."  But it also felt kind-of nice.  Like maybe I was impressing him in some way and maybe he was, in fact, thinking, "Wow, what a babe."  But I quickly dismissed this option as not even a remote possibility.

Soon, I was feeling so close to death that I was only running for part of the running intervals.  I considered quitting and going home, but I told myself that I had come this far and even if I had to walk the rest of the time, walking was better than going home and passing out on the couch before I finished.  My throat was on fire and the rest of me was freezing.  My face was numb and all I wanted to do was lay down and take deep breaths of warm air.  But, I trucked on until I finally completed the last running interval and was cued by my app to "cool down".

"I'm freaking freezing, I don't need to cool down!!" I screamed mentally at the stupid app.  But I was beyond relieved, and I started a slow walk home.  I had to stop a few times to bend over at the waist in an attempt to catch my breath and stave off the spells of dizziness that kept rolling over me.

Day 1 of Week 1 felt like it had lasted ages.  I fully expected L and C to be married with children of their own by the time I got home.  And I'll be honest, I had every intention of throwing in the towel and never running again.

Oh, remember the wigger?  Well when I got home, I quickly saw why he kept looking at me.  I happened upon a mirror seconds after arriving at the house, and my face was BRIGHT red.  I'm talking 3rd degree sunburn, lobster red.  The tomato face combined with my heavy panting breaths must have had him worried that I was going to keel over and would need emergency assistance.

I decided not to quit, though.  Lucky for me, my mom has a treadmill and I decided to give that a shot.  To my surprise, Day 2 on the treadmill was substantially easier than Day 1 outside.  This heartened me that maybe I wasn't so ridiculously out of shape as I thought, and I chose to keep my word to my brother and keep on keeping on with the program so I could run the 5K in June.

I just finished Week 2 last night, and while it's still hard, I can do it.  And 3 weeks into Weight Watchers, I've lost 7 pounds.  So I'm doing alright.  I still don't feel great about myself, especially now that I know Wigger Boy doesn't actually think I'm a babe.  But, I'm working on it.  And I really don't care about Wigger Boy.  My husband still (somehow) thinks I'm attractive, and that's enough for me!   

I'm still here and a middle finger to pumping

Hello!  I am still alive and well, despite all signs pointing to the opposite around this place!  I have a good excuse, though.  My little girl, C, was born on Feb. 16!  She is adorable and gorgeous and is quite the peanut.  My labor and delivery was a dream experience, and I just generally love the guts out of my new baby.  

However, that is not what I'm here to talk about today.  I'm here to talk about pumping.  Not pumping iron (which I really should be thinking about doing because my body is a sad state of affairs), but pumping boobies.  AKA that soul-sucking thing I do for 15-20 minutes every 2-3 hours.

Yes, I have found myself in the unfortunate position of having to pump exclusively if I want C to receive breast milk.  I had to do it with L as well. There are many reasons for this, but I'll spare you the awkwardness of having to read about them.  Let's just say that I tried nursing and failed.

With L, there was no question that I'd pump when it became apparent that I would not be able to nurse him.  I was 100% committed to giving him breast milk exclusively, so I got myself on a schedule and I pumped.  I only veered slightly from the plan when he was about one month old and suddenly developed a voracious appetite.  My supply couldn't keep up, so we started supplementing formula bottles for night feeds.  I also secretly hoped that the legend of formula-fed babies sleeping better was true.  (For us, that legend was a ginormous fail, by the way.  Even with his formula bottles, he was still waking at night a depressingly large number of times.)

With C, I really wanted to give nursing the old college try.  I figured that I'd gained experience from my first rodeo, as well as a sense of perspective that you can only gain from actually having a child.  So I mentally geared up to give nursing my all.  Still, I sterilized my pump parts just in case.

Well, C was born and it was amazing.  My labor was a mere 7 hours from start to finish (half as long as with L) and she was born in 2 pushes.  I thought we were off to an awesome start, as she was already "easier" than L.  But then we tried to latch her on for nursing, and it was excruciating and unbearable.  I tried to power through the entire time I was in the hospital, but after working with 2 nurses and 2 lactation consultants, I finally decided - with the blessing of the last lactation consultant - that it would be best to pump again.  And anyone who has ever met a lactation consultant knows that this is huge, since those ladies do not give up easily.

So home I went, slightly disappointed at being a nursing failure a second time around, but at least satisfied that I knew the drill and knew what to expect.

Oh how wrong I was.

You know how almost all women tell you that you forget the pain of childbirth almost as soon as it happens?  I would say that it goes double for any form of milk being transferred from your boobs.  Anything that requires your milk to "come in" and then regulate to a schedule.  Not fun.  And boy did I forget how not fun it is.

Well, I didn't exactly forget, but I certainly forgot how long the whole "not fun" transition period lasts.  In my mind, it was three days (four, tops) of uncomfortable engorgement and occasional leakage.  Which I would laugh about now if my boobs weren't as hard as rocks and juicing through triple layers of breast pads.  Yes, here we are 2.5 weeks later and my supply is still regulating.

I'll admit, I'm playing a dangerous game by going cold-turkey on night pumps.  I have not pumped at night once, and I guess it's probably confusing my boobs a bit.  This is an example of some of my "second rodeo" experience coming into play.  Because I'm so smart and experienced, I know that I can still maintain a reasonable supply without pumping at night.  And I also know that the last thing I want to do after feeding my baby for the third time in the middle of the night (by laying down and propping her bottle under my chin so I can "rest my eyes" while she's eating) is pump for 20 minutes.  So, I decided that I'd just send my body the message that we don't need milk at night right from the get-go.

Sadly, my boobs are either not receiving the message or they want to mirror the tantrums that L is throwing lately by trying to show me who is really boss here.  Let me just say, I can't imagine a more pleasant way to wake up than to be absolutely drenched in milk (and as a by-product, my sheets and comforter are also soaked), with rock-solid boobs that hurt far worse than any labor-incurred injuries.

I finally seem to be outwitting my boobs in the night-pump showdown, but it's been a long process.

Also keeping me busy and happy are the every-3-hour pumping sessions I'm doing.  With L, I didn't mind pumping because he was a newborn who slept all the time and it basically just meant that I would hook myself up to the pump every so often while I was looking around online or watching tv.  This time, it's much harder.  L is now an active toddler, and we also live with my parents.  I can't just whip my boobs out and pump wherever I am, and if I want to leave the room to pump, I have to make sure someone is around to hang out with L.  And then I leave and pump for 20 minutes and feel guilty about it because I'm upstairs in my bedroom having "down time" while someone else is entertaining my kid.  Because we all know that there's nothing more relaxing than sitting in an awkward position with a loud, plastic mechanism attached to your painful boobs 6 times a day.

Then there is the wonderful scent that comes along with pumping.  I'm not sure if it also comes along with nursing because I've never been able to successfully nurse, but if not, you nursing mothers are really missing out!  I know everyone wishes they could walk around smelling like sweaty breast milk.  It's truly delightful.  So much so that I've seriously considered putting deodorant on my boobs.  But then I got worried about adding something else to the mix, and decided against it.  It's especially bad since I don't get to shower every day at this point.

D is always talking about how "something" smells funny, and since I am usually carrying the baby around, I just blame it on her even though I know it's me.  Babies are supposed to smell bad, so I figure it's ok.  But then he'll sniff her and he'll be like, "No, it's not her..." and then I'll play dumb and be like, "Well maybe it's you."  I don't know if he's figured it out yet or not, but if he has he hasn't said anything to me.  Either way, I'm golden.  Either he truly hasn't figured out what that smell is, or he has figured it out but wants to dance along to my ruse of a jig and let me keep a shred of dignity.

But seriously, even though I would quit pumping in 2 shakes of a lambs tail if D would let me, it's been amazing having C here.  She is beautiful and perfect and so far a really awesome baby.  I'm sure she'll add a good amount of spice to our lives and to this blog!

(Oh and also?  Anyone who acts like you get peed on more with boys than with girls is lying.  L has only peed on me once in his entire life, and C peed on me 3 times within her first 24 hours of life.  Myth: Busted.)    

Things I have done to try to make this baby come

Hey, lucky you! Two posts in two days! And bonus, they are both about how I want this baby to be born! How happy are you that you clicked over here?

Since I'm driving myself crazy wondering when 2.0 will come, I figured I'd let you in on just how crazy I am so you can have a laugh at my expense. In my defense, some of things have only been *considered* at this point, so at least I'm not fully over the edge yet.

- Watched "One Born Every Minute" on Lifetime in hopes that seeing other women having babies would put me into labor, much as how actually being around another woman in labor can put a full-term mommy into labor. Unfortunately, unlike yawns, active labor is not contagious through television.

- On "One Born Every Minute", there was a very crunchy couple who wanted a completely drug-free birth. (They were actually pretty disrespectful to their labor and delivery nurse. I think they thought she was one of Satan's minions, sent specifically to sabotage their pages-long birth plan at any possible turn.) I do not want a drug-free birth. Bring on the drugs.

But anyway, my point is that at one point in the show, the mom and dad were staring at each other forehead-to-forehead and moaning "ooooooooopen" and rocking back and forth. They were talking to her cervix. It was actually kind of creepy. But when I was brushing my teeth last night, I was thinking about it and I was like, well....you never know. I wasn't going to get as creepy as them, but I figured it couldn't hurt, so I whispered, "Hey.....cervix? Open?" I guess I need to be more assertive, because it didn't work.

- Whenever I get a chance (whenever I am alone), and whenever I have proper furniture or something else to support me, I'll do a couple squats in the hopes that my water will just give up and concede the victory to me. Sadly, my water is currently winning and all I've gotten out of the squats is the urge to pee and sore thighs.

- I have not done this, but I have seriously considered (on at least three separate occasions) busting out the breast pump early because I hear that can cause contractions. Two things have been stopping me. One: I don't want to waste colostrum. Two: I've already sterilized all my pump parts and bottles and I don't feel like doing it again.

- I've given 2.0 a number of stern talking-to's. As of right now, he or she does not seem to subscribe to D's motto of "If you're early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late." Which means the 2.0 is already showing signs of being just like me. Which is terrifying.

- I've pretended to give up and adopt the more zen attitude of "when it happens, it happens". I'm fooling no one. Not my water, not myself and most definitely not 2.0. I'm so unconvincing in this charade that I haven't even tried to say it to anyone outside of myself because I know they'll be unable to keep a straight face, and I really don't want strangulation charges on my hands right now.

(On a slightly related note, is it weird how I feel like 2.0 can read my mind? I don't know why that is, but I find myself talking to 2.0 in my mind, thinking that he or she can totally hear and understand what I'm "saying".)

I know there's other things that are supposed to jump-start labor, but none of them sound appealing to me. I don't really feel like chugging castor oil or using scary "natural" herbs. It's not helpful that it's freezing outside and there's a foot of snow on the ground, which prevents me from getting outside and taking a walk. And D is convinced that going anywhere (aside from work) by myself will cause 2.0 to spontaneously karate chop out of my womb, so I can't even go to the mall to walk around.

So I guess I'll just have to resign myself to "when it happens, it happens." (It's a good thing for every one that I can't hear you laughing at me right now.)

Pregnancy-induced insanity

I am at war with myself. More specifically, my physical self is at war with my control freak self. I am 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant today, and my physical self wants this baby o-u-t. My physical self is sick of Braxton Hicks contractions and peeing constantly and heartburn and back aches.

My control freak self is going haywire because she can't decide when the ideal time for this baby to arrive would be. Do we want the baby to be born ASAP so Physical Self can get some relief? Or is it more important for 2.0 to come at a time when D is not working so he won't be exhausted and unrested? Or should 2.0 wait until closer to my due date so my maternity leave at work would work out more appealingly?

All these considerations are driving me insane. I'll find myself thinking, "Ok baby, X has transpired, you can come now. Except you should wait until ABC to come, because then that would be better. Except wait, that would mean that DEF would be the case, so maybe you shouldn't do that..." The only conclusion I can really come to is the fact that, no matter how much I'd love to be able to plan 2.0's exact arrival, I'm secretly glad I don't have to because I'd drive myself crazy trying to come up with the perfect day and time.

I think I'm just at my limit speculation-wise. It's so annoying to be up in my head all the time, wondering if this twinge or that ache was the beginning of labor. And if I've gotten my head worked up into such a state that even I don't want to be there, that's a little bit sad.

But seriously, every night I go to bed and I lay there for however long just waiting for something to happen. I've been reading too much crap online about early labor and how to distinguish between false and real labor, and it's further proof to me that there is definitely such a thing is too much information.

Somewhere in one of those articles, I read that the majority of women experience their water breaking while they're in bed. This was written to ease the minds of women who were afraid their water would bust open at work or in the mall. Leave it to me to turn something that is supposed to be comforting into something to obsess over. So now every night when I go to bed, I literally lay there waiting for my water to break.

Also in one of those articles, I was informed that only 10% of women have water breakage as their first indication of labor, without having any contractions or anything beforehand. Which is depressing because that's exactly what happened to me with L, and I never realized how rare it was. I really, really need to stop Googling this crap.

Even as I sit here writing this, I'm in turmoil and my mind is whirling.

"I really would like to make it to this weekend without having the baby because we have plans with friends on Saturday night. And then L has his 15 month check-up next Thursday and I'd really like to be there because I haven't gotten to meet his new pediatrician yet, so really, it would be best if 2.0 would wait until after that....But I don't WANT to be pregnant until next Thursday! I want the baby to be here now so I can stop having these awful practice contractions! But I don't necessarily want this baby to be here because that means it's back to exhaustion and leaky boobs and no routine or predictable schedule for at least two months..."

See what an awful place my head is? If it was a club or a restaurant or something, no one would want to be there and it would go bankrupt and close. But as the owner, I can't figure out how to shut it down and so I'm forced to sit there and listen to the awful, endless stream of techno bounce off the walls of the empty establishment and since I'm pregnant I can't even drown my sorrows in a nice sangria or glass of Moscato. So I sip my water as the crazy runs amok.

Maybe it would be best for everyone if 2.0 would just be born so I can stop the madness and just play with whatever hand is dealt to me. Yeah, I think that would really just be the best thing. So 2.0, listen up. You can come any time you want and I'll be ready for you.

Except could you wait until Wednesday or Thursday so I can tie things up at the office? And then, if you're going to wait until then, you may as well wait until Sunday so Dad and I can go hang out with our friends....

Staycations

I think I may have mentioned this already, but D's and my 3 year anniversary is coming up on Feb. 2. We (I) try to make it a point to plan something special, preferably some sort of getaway.
The problem is, I was somewhat short-sighted when I decided that a February wedding was a good idea. Turns out, if you don't have lots of money, it's kind-of hard to find things to do in Michigan in the dead of winter. Right about this time of year, the cold starts to get really tiresome and the novelty of the snow has long since worn off. And all you want to do is go someplace warm and tropical.

Sadly, warm and tropical requires money. And also, not so easy to get away when kids are thrown in the mix. Especially when one kid is just about finished baking and could be popping out of the oven at any time.

For our first anniversary, D and I went to the west coast of Michigan to a bed and breakfast. Turns out, the town I had selected was actually more of a summer mecca and pretty much closed down in the winter. Which would explain why I had gotten such a good deal at the bed and breakfast.

This post is not about that trip, but I can't resist giving you an idea of what we were dealing with. First of all, it was basically a blizzard when we were driving into the town, trying to locate our B&B. It was just like a scary movie, where the roads are totally deserted and there's one lone traffic light blinking yellow in the distance.

Needless to say, we were the only ones at the B&B that weekend. Which was also eerie, because the B&B was a restored Victorian-style house and every time I opened the door of our room, I expected to see the scary girl from The Shining standing at the end of the hall.

Part of our weekend package was a gift certificate to a local restaurant. So we called the restaurant to see what time they closed and they said, "Whenever people stop coming in." And there was literally nothing else in this town except a bunch of boutiques that were closed and one other bar-type restaurant.

It was not a banner weekend, to say the least.

For our second anniversary, I don't remember what we did. When I started to write this post, I thought we went to Chicago, but then I started to remember that we went to Chicago in the summer for our babymoon before L was born, and not for our anniversary.

So please excuse my pregnancy brain, because I truly cannot remember what we did last year. I know L was here, so it can't have been anything exciting. And I was returning to work from maternity leave right around that time, so that seals it. We didn't really do anything for our 2nd anniversary. I think we exchanged gifts?

This year, I knew we'd need to do something. We're on the brink of having 2 under 2, I feel like I've been pregnant forever and I just want a weekend that is without a schedule and that doesn't have to be planned around nap time. So, I started thinking about it back in the fall, and looked ahead at the calendar to see what D's work schedule looked like.

Unfortunately, our actual anniversary falls in the red-zone for me pregnancy-wise. I'll be just about 37 weeks, and I think my doctor would lock me up and throw away the key if I mentioned to her that I was planning on going anywhere further away than an hour. But, since D was off weekends in December, it means he was on weekends for January. So the first weekend we could do anything would be this coming weekend, the last of January.

Not to be deterred, I announced to D that we would be taking a "staycation" and just go to a local hotel and bop around our home area for the weekend. At first, I had all these grandiose plans about how D would pick an activity to do on the Friday night and I'd pick something for Saturday night and we'd just play it by ear for the day on Saturday.

But then, as this weekend drew closer and closer, I realized that there was pretty much one thing I wanted to do: sleep. As it turns out, hotels are really awesome for that. So there's definitely going to be a lot of sleeping built into the agenda.

We do have other things planned, like dinner and a movie on Friday night. And then on Saturday, there's a home improvement show at the local expo center (with an arts and crafts fair built in) that happens to be a stone's throw away from the hotel. I'd tell you how unbelievably pumped I am about this, but it would quickly become apparent how much of a loser I am, so I won't go into that. Other than that, we have no plans except to just eat dinner and possibly bring our DVD player and watch a movie on Saturday night. Maybe order some dessert from room service or something.

But no matter what, we will have a complete and total lack of structure and schedule. This is so incredibly appealing to me that I can't even really put it into words. We're going to wake up when we want to wake up, eat when we want to eat, go where we want to go when we want to go there.....ahhhh.

Sorry, I just got a little bit swept away by the sheer bliss of it all.

I think I might be more excited about this staycation than I have been for a weekend in a long time. To be honest, I don't think I was this excited about Christmas. Or my birthday (even though this past birthday totally kicked ass).

I'm so excited that I think I've got myself convinced that staycations are just the way to go in general. Forget fancy trips to exotic locales. Why go countries (or even states) away, when a fun staycation could be yours?

Think of the perks. For one, you are already familiar with the area. If the hotel concierge tells you some sort of attraction or event is in a certain town, you already know where that town is.

You also have complete control over your travel time. You can choose a hotel 5 minutes away or 30 minutes away. And since you already know your area, you know which hotels are nice and which ones to avoid. So you eliminate the chance that you'll end up at some questionable hotel on the seedy side of town where they have the option of renting rooms by the hour.

Then there's the fun of exploring the area in which you live. You can go places you never even knew existed or always wondered about. You can eat at restaurants you've always wanted to try. (Or, in our case, you can eat at the restaurants you'd normally eat at because your husband is picky and relatively predictable and would rather eat someplace he knows he likes because if he's paying for it, he'd better like it or it will ruin his whole life.) And best of all, it's cheaper!

With all these revelations, I've got myself about 75% convinced that all our future family vacations will be staycations. If we get started with this now, our kids won't know anything different. When they're in school and their friends are talking about Disney World and cruises and beach houses, our kids will be like, "For our summer vacation, we went to Ann Arbor." (To any non-local blog readers, Ann Arbor is maybe 30 minutes from us.)

And then, if we ever do dare to venture out of state for a vacation, our kids will be in total and complete awe. By that point, we wouldn't have to go far to impress them. I'm pretty sure Cedar Point would do the trick. And Chicago would probably blow their minds. (But seriously, Chicago is awesome. Chicago blows MY mind.)

So that's the plan for the distant future. The near future holds a wonderful sleep and relaxation-filled weekend with my sweetie of 3 years (well, married for 3. Together for much longer than that. I've lost count.) Probably the last one of it's kind for a while once 2.0 gets here.

But I won't think about that. D and I made a pact that, while we can talk about L and 2.0 and general baby stuff, we aren't allowed to stress or bicker or talk about the lack of sleep that awaits us or discuss anything un-fun (specifically, money). There will only be relaxation and enjoying each other's company.

And dreaming of all the changes we want to make to our house while we're at the home improvement show.

Advice to my daughter

Ok, so I don't have a daughter. We don't know if the bun that's cooking is a boy bun or a girl bun, but it doesn't matter. Even if I never have a daughter, I'll probably one day have a daughter in law. And I'll try to remember that even if we get along better than any mother and daughter in law in the history of the world, there's always going to be a line as to how much advice I can give her before she starts complaining to my son about how I won't stop putting my nose in her business and could he please talk to me and tell me to knock it off already.

So here's what I'm thinking. D and I have our 3rd anniversary coming up on February 2. It feels like we've been married for much longer than that, and I truly mean that in the best way possible. And I've been thinking about our wedding and how amazing it was and how I was such a naive fool about so many things. And that got me to thinking about what I'd do differently. And then I thought I'd write a blog post about it, so one day, when my son is getting ready to get married, I can casually drop into conversation about how I once wrote a blog and wow, what a brilliant idea, why don't you check it out, future daughter in law? And I'll conveniently have this post all pulled up and ready to go. (Note to daughter in law: Obviously my brilliant plan is now completely foiled because you're reading this, so just humor me, ok?)

So, my future daughter (and/or daughter in law), here are some things I wish I would have known when I was getting married, as well as some things that I think are helpful for a young bride to know.

- If someone buys you some nice pots and pans that are anything better than cheap, do not return them. Even if you still need so many things for the house and you could return the pots and pans to get cheaper pots and pans and some other stuff you need, don't do it. Trust me. Good pots and pans are so easy to take for granted. In fact, what I'm going to do for you is save the pots and pans that D and I currently own so that you can cook with them and see what a difference there is between nice pots and pans and crappy pots and pans. (Did you ever think it would be possible to say the phrase "pots and pans" so often in just a few sentences?) Trust me, keep the nice pots and pans.

- Same thing as above, except for bed sheets. Nice bed sheets are a true luxury, and unless you are starting out with all your financial ducks in a row and have plenty of excess money, you will probably not be buying yourself nice sheets for at least 10 years (possibly longer). If you find yourself needing sheets within the first 10 years of marriage, you'll end up at Target and you'll be like, "What?!? $70 for sheets? No thanks, I'll go with the jersey sheets that feel just like a nice t-shirt for $20." (On a related note, those jersey sheets suck. Yeah, they are soft, but they stretch out like mad and I don't recommend that you purchase them unless you like waking up to find that you are laying on your bare mattress because the stupid sheet stretched out so much that the corner popped off in the middle of the night.)

- Don't stress about the little details of wedding planning. For about 2 months when I was planning my wedding, I was obsessed with the idea of getting colored contacts because I wanted my eyes to look super blue in my pictures. The only thing that stopped me was the fact that my insurance wouldn't cover them because I'd already gotten glasses that year. Now that I look back on that, I realize how ridiculous it was to want to alter the color of my eyes for a day. And how everyone would be coming up to me and commenting on how my eyes look frighteningly blue, instead of commenting on how gorgeous my dress was.

- Speaking of my dress, I can't imagine it ever looking old or out-dated, but chances are that by the time you are getting married, it will be both. This will likely be partially due to the fact that I am cheap and still can't bring myself to get it preserved, but it's on my list of goals for the next 5 years, so hopefully it will get done eventually. But I promise, I'll never pressure you to wear it. If you want to, I'd be thrilled and honored, but I would never dream of trying to deprive you of the joy of trying on wedding dresses and finding the one that seems as though it was made for you. All I ask is that you let me come along once or twice. I promise not to be annoying or overbearing. I just love wedding dresses!

- I know I said don't stress the small stuff. But the big stuff (i.e. reception venue and photographer) is worth sweating. Don't settle for less than what you want. If you'd like to hear a story emphasizing this, just ask D (your dad/future father in law) about our wedding cake and what I thought about it. Seriously, ask him. Don't ask me, because even now, 3 years later, I still get whipped into a tizzy just thinking about it and how it wasn't AT ALL what I asked for and how the heck could the bakery even screw it up when I brought a freaking picture for the love of pete and we spent 45 minutes talking about the details and how they are lucky that it tasted so damn good because if it hadn't I probably would have gone bridezilla on their butts. I hope that in the roughly 23+ years it will be until your wedding that I've gotten over it, but you never know.

- Take a honeymoon. I don't care how broke you are, make this one of your top priorities. It doesn't have to be a big, elaborate trip - it can be anything. But just do it. I promise you, if you're thinking you're not going to take a honeymoon right now, whatever reasons are currently holding you back will only get worse and harder to overcome after you get married. Money and time only get harder to come by after you've tied the knot. And some new reasons are likely to present themselves once you do get married (like babies, for instance). And let me tell you, those new reasons are a lot harder to work around than the reasons you currently have.

But, if you really, truly can't take a trip right now because you can't get enough time off work or you honestly don't have the money, then at the very least, please put down a non-refundable deposit on a trip that is booked for sometime in the next year. Because if you just get married and say you're going to take a trip for your 1-year anniversary but don't take actual steps to book that trip, you probably won't do it. But really, there is nothing that can compare to taking a vacation immediately after your big day as a freshly married couple. It's awesome and special and amazing. So please, just do it. I don't know where D and I are financially as you're reading this, but I believe in this so passionately that you could probably wrangle at least a little bit of money out of us for the trip. Unless you're our daughter and we're footing the bill for the rest of the wedding. In that case, you're on your own.

- Marry a man who cooks. If you fail on this front, then know how to cook or prepare at least 10 meals that can be passed off as dinners before you get married. You won't regret it. And if you already know how to do this, where did you learn it from? Because it sure as heck wasn't from from me. And if you're marrying my son, he probably doesn't know how to cook since I'm his mother, so you're going to have to take the reigns in the kitchen.

- No matter how long you're married before you have children, savor each moment that is just you and your husband. Children are wonderful blessings and you will never regret having them. But the special time where it is just you and your husband is something you won't ever get back. So enjoy it and learn from it and love each other with all that you've got. Because let me tell you, kids are the biggest game changer you could possibly imagine.

- Don't argue too much over the guest list. Don't let it get out of control, but choose your battles. If it's really important to your future husband that his best friend from junior high whom he hasn't spoken to in 12 years is there, maybe just give him a pass and let him invite the guy. In the grand scheme of things, it isn't a big deal to tack on two more names to the list. And if your husband is anything like D, you might want to save your vetoes for more important things like what silverware to register for. Because he might surprise you and have deep, abiding opinions about such things that differ from your own.

- And above all else, if you ever find yourself thinking, "I just can't wait for this whole thing to be over" at any point in the planning process, take a step back and regroup. NOTHING (not one, single detail - except maybe the church and the priest) about your wedding day is so important that you should stress so much that you're wishing the day would just come and go. All that matters is that you are going to marry the man that you love. That is it. Because truly, in the grand scheme of things, it really is just one day, and whatever is causing you panic or anxiety will probably matter very minimally on the actual day. Never let it get away from the true importance of the day - your MARRIAGE. Not your wedding. Your wedding is important, but your marriage is infinitely more-so. And if you're to the point where you're thinking how happy you'll be once the day is all over, there's a good chance that you've lost sight of that. So do everything in your power to get back to that center.

I hope this was helpful! I'm super pumped for the wedding. I love weddings. And if I am ever getting too overbearing and involved in the process, just let me know and I'll try to contain myself. Just know that I really do mean well. You can be 97% sure that anything I'm doing that is annoying is not on purpose and is not meant to piss you off.

Love, Mom (or future mom)