Baby Phat

No doubt about it, five foot tall pregnant women are phat. They're as tall as they are wide. I should know. That's what I was when preggers. PHAT! When Olive was still residing in my belly, I went from being a 100 pound midget to a 142 pound one. Le husband complemented me by telling me I was "fun-size", and I reassured myself that I a few extra pounds here and there weren't going to hurt. "What's another five? There's that much more of me to love! Plus, they're all going to melt away when I start breast feeding, yeah?" Um, NO. Three months and a mega-failed-attempt-to-breast-feed later, I'm weighing in at 121 pounds and still sporting maternity jeans. Shoot. To make matters worse, my narcissist-in-the-making baby adores looking at herself in the mirror, and I'm then forced to face the scary reflection before me. *cue me some old-school Christina Aguilera circa "Mulan"* "Who is this girl I see?! Staring straight, back at me..." I'll tell you who. Fatty McChow, that's who! Need to do something about this baby weight a-sap. Just afraid that the "something" will involve lowering my calorie intake and upping my physical activity - a solution so obvious, it's laughable.

Uncanny Resemblance

My postpartum bellybutton bears an uncanny resemblance to my dog's asshole. Just sayin'.

Expecting the Unexpected

It's been a while since my last post. Little ones are adorable, but they are also emotionally and physically draining - even with help. Moms who convince you that the child rearing experience is otherwise are liars. That, or they are freaks. Freaks with freak babies. So I like to tell myself.

Not one to sugarcoat, I'll be the first to admit that I'm no model mother. I actually sit in my bed and have a good cry nearly every other day - out of sight from the nanny and Olive. It's not because I don't love my new little monster. For the record, I adore her to bits and will do anything for her. I mean it. Anything. (I'm holding and hugging a sleeping Olive as I type this.) But since her arrival, it's been difficult adjusting to all things new. Life postpartum is not what I expected. For every immense surge of joy I feel when interacting with Olive, I experience an extreme dose of sadness. I'm a passenger on a roller coaster of emotions and I've been riding this coaster for two months to date. I feel good three-quarters of the time, but the other quarter is spent having panic attacks about a wide spectrum of things. I'm constantly anxious - be it about the baby (obvi), home cleanliness, my career, my weight. I have to consciously not-freak-out, and I'm pretty sure that this new me (whom I'm not fond of) scares the hubby. Josh, I am so sorry. I just don't feel like myself lately... and am having a hard time getting out of my slump...

On a brighter note, Olive is exact 2 months old today. *big grin* Rather than highlighting how adorable and bright she is (parental bias!), I think I'll just spend the neck paragraph highlighting how huge she is. Our freakishly strong baby girl is already putting her neck muscles and Michelle Obama-esque arms to use. Check her out! Next thing you know, she'll be busting out her father's P90X videos and doing push-ups. *teehee*

The Aftermath

No one said it'd be easy.
But no book or conversation could have prepared me for what I experienced post-partum.

Though I had a relatively easy pregnancy, my first month post-partum was a nightmare. Not only did have to deal with the physical pain that came with recovering from my c-section surgery, there was the intense pain and frustration that experienced as I made made a valiant attempt to breast feed. My breasts wouldn't cooperate for the life of me, and I found myself battling boob engorgement, tissue inflammation (mastitis), and underperformance (milk supply issues). You name the lactation-related complication, and I suffered it.

On top of being physically unfit to care for Olive (my chest hurt SO much that I couldn't pick Olive up, let alone play with her), there were two additional challenges I had to face along with le hubby: Olive was (is) colic and completely unwilling to sleep in any of her beds (crib and bassinet). The only way to soothe her is to hold her (my poor chest), and well, she insists on being soothed and held constantly. When put down, Olive hollers - her hollering best explained to those who haven't spent time with her as being the volume and intensity of a normal baby cry times two. It's one thing when she's crying because she needs to be fed or burped, but when she's crying for seemingly no good reason for hours, both le hubby and I start losing our minds.

Le hubby and I know that we're incredibly lucky to have been blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby. Yet we can't help but look on at other parents who, at the 1-month mark, are already pushing their tots around Silver Lake effortlessly without a tear in sight nor cry to be heard. The thought of a quiet and chill child makes us (well, me) salivate.

Are we bad parents? We live in constant fear that we are. Are we too impatient? Two weeks ago, I thought we were. But we aren't. We just have a feisty munchkin. Which isn't to say that we're pushing all blame onto Olive either. But every baby is different, and that's a fact. It's okay if I have negative feelings every so often. Beats bottling it all up inside. The post-partum period need not be like Fight Club. I can talk about it. And once I do, I feel better. Happy mommy, happy baby, yeah?

Olive is developing beautifully (10 lbs 3 oz at a mere 43 days old), and she gets cuter with each day. *gush* I'm in awe of her and am so proud that she's ours. To think that I have it in me to love anything or anyone this much is simply insane.

The past month and a half has been a pain (quite literally), but it's all been worth it. Really. Truly. Look at that face.