Lorelei has taken to dumping glitter on her head on a semi-regular basis. I don’t mean a cute little glitter shower, I mean a freaking glitter deluge. She had a friend over this weekend and they took turns filling a cap with glitter and pouring it on each other. Her mom used a lice comb to get some of it out of the friend’s hair. I… just left it. A beautiful gold layer of shine is coating my floors. By that night I looked like I had the glitterpox.
I remember the first time I fell in love with glitter. I was in high school and on my way back from out-of-town back-to-school shopping. We lived in a small town and frequently drove the two hours to Raleigh to do big shopping trips. A friend was with us and she bought some Bath and Body Works Art Stuff roll-on glitter. I rolled it all over me and she let me know I looked like I’d been vomited on by a fairy.
By college, I had embraced all things sparkle. I generally looked something like this, leaving a trail of glitter in my wake.
Lorelei’s teacher emailed me to say she had gotten more work done today than any other day so far this year. I’m assuming the glitter is magic. And hey, if it makes her feel confident, then I’m not going to say no to the shine.
Speaking of confidence.
Did you know if you continue to eat like you are nursing a newborn when you are not actually nursing a newborn that you’ll gain weight? I totally knew that and yet I let it happen anyhow.
I know. Nobody likes it when thin people complain about their weight — but I don’t feel good. I feel frumpy and sluggish. My biggest pants are tight. I’m a little above my pre-pregnancy weight with Lorelei and about 10 pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight with Rowan. And about 10 pounds above the weight I’d naturally dropped to while pumping and nursing around the clock. I feel bloated. I have barely gotten anything even resembling exercise since I stopped skating when I was around 12 weeks pregnant with Rowan.
Why am I whining about this here? Accountability. So much of what I need to do is painfully obvious, but also just feels painful. I’m tired and overwhelmed and chronically stressed, and carbs and beer and sitting my ass in the recliner all feel like great medicine.
So here is my plan.
I’m going to start loosely using My Fitness Pal again, at least for a few weeks. I don’t like to go overboard with it because it’s easy to get obsessive, but it does give me a great starting point and baseline for how badly I’m currently treating my body. I probably shouldn’t have eaten eight cookies yesterday.
More importantly is exercise. I am so out of shape. My body feels weak. I spent so long after Rowan was born recovering both mentally and physically that I now have a long way to go. I was probably the fittest I’ve ever been just before I got pregnant with him.
I’m going to start skating once a week again, trying to work my way up to two 45-minute sessions each Tuesday night. Right now it’s only an hour before I’m exhausted.
Have Kindle will travel. Well, not really travel so much as run in place on the elliptical. I can read while I run, which makes it seem plausible to try to run at least three times per week. Starting at 10 minutes per session, but eventually getting to at least 30.
Lift weights. My poor arms
Cut out alcohol. Not 100% by any means but it’s so easy to get into the habit of drinking a beer with dinner each night, which turns into two on weekend nights.
Cut out fast food. I never used to eat fast food unless we were on a road trip. Recently it has been sneaking in — probably as a leftover from Rowan’s hospital stay when it is all I had time for.
There. I wrote it. Let it be so. I will start tomorrow — for now, I’m going to bed.