Joining the always lovely Jen, though I am appalled (and a little intrigued) by her latest choice in running footwear.
1. Speaking of running, I’ve been logging serious miles this past week. I ran 6 out of the last 7 days, and clocked in for a grand total of…7 miles. yes. Still very much post partum. But my weight watchers meetings have helped me to celebrate small victories…
2. like only having .6 lbs show up on the scale after a week of overindulging in everything Italian. Followed by another week of shame dieting where I counted out individual portions of tortilla chips at lunchtime. And then made multiple trips back and forth from the kitchen to acquire additional individual portions. But I digress.
3. Tortilla chips, you might ask? Why yes, they are a daily staple in our household. I purchase 1-2 bags a week, and they are basically our family’s (okay, mine) equivalent of bread. I don’t really eat bread, and I don’t really eat pasta…I just am not crazy about either carb. But tortilla chips…be still my white mexican heart. Also, refried beans. The fat-free kind, but still…on an almost daily basis. Disturbed yet? Joey loves them too…they were basically his first food. At 6 months, where, pictured below, he weighed less than his brother does at 9 weeks.
I’m sorry, do I not look Mexican to you?
4. I have discovered my new go-to summer drink which was born of a desperate Thursday, culminating in an SOS flare sent in Dave’s direction on his drive home to ‘bring vodka. nothing cheaper than skyy. Abosolut will do if Grey Goose is too spendy.’ End text. He didn’t fail to deliver a bottle of organic Minnesota clear stuff (um, okay), which I promptly combined with muddled limes, rocks, club soda and a couple of my failed homemade strawberry ‘toddler pops’ from my freezer section. The result? Delish. With a side of meltingpopsicleinmyvodka. I call it Mommy’s strawberry limeaid. Which sounds completely legit to bring to the pool/park/splashground.
great label design, right?
5. Having 2 kids is like, really hard. Having 2 kids and post partum depression is like shoving a hot safety pin into your eye after having gone 28 hours without sleep and 2 days without a shower. That being said, the outpouring of support, comraderie and empathy last week’s post generated blew mah mind. In a good way. If I didn’t respond to you personally, it’s only because I’m still kind of in survival mode, but I so appreciated your words. And for all of you who admitted your own struggles with this nasty beast and asked for prayers, know that you’ve been remembered during those times when I most need to stop thinking about MY problems and MY crazy life and offer.it.up.
6. But in addition to prayer, I’ve also had the good fortune of seeing a handful of moderately skilled mental health professionals and one great psychiatrist (thanks, managed healthcare…so very efficient), who has proscribed some extra ‘help’ in the form of a new anti-depressant. And honestly? I’m fine with that. Tom Cruise’s disapproval notwithstanding, I don’t see anything wrong with mixing in a little good ‘ol western medicine with all the other efforts I’m making (with my wonderful husband’s help) to get through this. I’ve had countless conversations with girlfriends who are wary of taking psychiatric meds but who probably wouldn’t bat an eye over pills to treat other serious ailments. I think it’s a cultural stigma that refuses to see mental illness as ‘real,’ or else it’s just the relative ‘newness’ of having these kinds of medication at our disposal.
7. The Bachelorette. My secret, shameful addiction during this babymoon period (with Joey it was the Hills, which I am faaaaaar more ashamed to admit.) But, um, seriously…SPOILER ALERT…you sent Sean home? And kept fruity Aerie? Arie? Isn’t that the name of a line of teen lingerie from American Eagle? Whatever his name’s spelling is, the important thing for Emily to remember is that he WILL run his long, feminine fingers along your neck while kissing you and stroking your cranium like some kind of creepy indy-car racing vampire. Ew. And I just know she’s going to pick him over sweet, skinny-jean clad Jef. C’est la vie, reality tv style, I suppose.