wah, etc
The other day, I don't know whether my sadness rubbed off on Daniel, or whether Daniel's day long whimpering was what took me from a teeter on the edge of to a plunge into a sea of despair. Thankfully, the mood passed for both of us, but for one day, oy.
I've been dealing with hairloss for four years and now, hello! post partum shed, and I'm also dealing (rather well I might add, considering that while my life looks normal, kinda, I've not dropped the freakazoid attitude toward food and weight) with the size of my butt threatening to take over the Southern Hemisphere. As an aside, what the fuck is up with that? Eight days after Daniel made his entrance, I got my old body back. It was a little softer around the edges and I had a little pooch where my washboard abs used to be, but by and large, my jeans fit, angels sung and if you listened closely, you could hear the sound of a harpsichord playing in the background. Now though, ugh. I'm breastfeeding fercrisake. The rule book says breastfeeding mothers lose the goddamned baby weight. I didn't really gain any baby weight, so should be able to eat a horse and the stable cats, but nooo. Despite the fact that I'm eating barely enough to keep a bug alive, I'm gaining saddlebags (hello equine theme) and this...this...big fat thing behind me. Worry not though, for despite this stringent regimen, not only am I growing beyond the state line, Daniel is thriving. That's mothercode for 'time to buy bigger diapers'.
The calorific math doesn't add up though. In goes, like, a thousand of those suckers - and Daniel and I are both gaining a tonnage a week. Lesson time: it takes three thousand five hundred extra calories to gain an extra pound, so what the fucking fuck?!?. Daniel's succulent outer coating flatters his fine self, while mine means I have nothing to wear and I look like an extra on the set of Free Wille.
That digression means that the theme of my planned entry has exploded because Sir Suckalot, who was alseep, isn't, so he's exploded. Not literally, thank goodness, vocally, and probably also in-his-pants-erly, so I'll quickly summarise: we were both sad, him maybe because he realised I'm not really a good mother, I'm just a bad mother blessed with an easy kid, or maybe because of that fucking eighty dollar parking ticket, and me because even though I stoically deal with hairloss, regrets over my wasted life, bills, bills, bills and no income, a million other things that whirl through my overthinking mind because I truly am a poor thing, and the fatigue, oh the fatigue, which is not related to food intake or new motherhood and is grounds for another entry entirely, and this newly formed, still growing, big, giant arse on a daily basis like it's all no thing, on that one day this week, I felt like crying so Daniel did it for me. The end.
I've been dealing with hairloss for four years and now, hello! post partum shed, and I'm also dealing (rather well I might add, considering that while my life looks normal, kinda, I've not dropped the freakazoid attitude toward food and weight) with the size of my butt threatening to take over the Southern Hemisphere. As an aside, what the fuck is up with that? Eight days after Daniel made his entrance, I got my old body back. It was a little softer around the edges and I had a little pooch where my washboard abs used to be, but by and large, my jeans fit, angels sung and if you listened closely, you could hear the sound of a harpsichord playing in the background. Now though, ugh. I'm breastfeeding fercrisake. The rule book says breastfeeding mothers lose the goddamned baby weight. I didn't really gain any baby weight, so should be able to eat a horse and the stable cats, but nooo. Despite the fact that I'm eating barely enough to keep a bug alive, I'm gaining saddlebags (hello equine theme) and this...this...big fat thing behind me. Worry not though, for despite this stringent regimen, not only am I growing beyond the state line, Daniel is thriving. That's mothercode for 'time to buy bigger diapers'.
The calorific math doesn't add up though. In goes, like, a thousand of those suckers - and Daniel and I are both gaining a tonnage a week. Lesson time: it takes three thousand five hundred extra calories to gain an extra pound, so what the fucking fuck?!?. Daniel's succulent outer coating flatters his fine self, while mine means I have nothing to wear and I look like an extra on the set of Free Wille.
That digression means that the theme of my planned entry has exploded because Sir Suckalot, who was alseep, isn't, so he's exploded. Not literally, thank goodness, vocally, and probably also in-his-pants-erly, so I'll quickly summarise: we were both sad, him maybe because he realised I'm not really a good mother, I'm just a bad mother blessed with an easy kid, or maybe because of that fucking eighty dollar parking ticket, and me because even though I stoically deal with hairloss, regrets over my wasted life, bills, bills, bills and no income, a million other things that whirl through my overthinking mind because I truly am a poor thing, and the fatigue, oh the fatigue, which is not related to food intake or new motherhood and is grounds for another entry entirely, and this newly formed, still growing, big, giant arse on a daily basis like it's all no thing, on that one day this week, I felt like crying so Daniel did it for me. The end.
posted by aibee at 13:20
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