Full of It

Watching Eli’s intellect develop has been a blast.  As he acquires language and begins to “reason,” I become increasingly fascinated.  Language acquisition has always been a source of marvel for me, and getting to witness it firsthand has been nothing less than thrilling.

Already he attempts to “explain” things.  So, for instance, when he throws his stuffed frog onto the kitchen counter it’s “fra cli?” (frog climb?).  Or, he throws frog onto the floor and it’s “fra fall?”  You get the idea.  I worry he’s already learned how to lie, but figure he’s really just trying to reason things out.

It reminds me of a favorite story from my childhood.  The short of it is: My brothers and I did not understand, hell, weren’t even aware of the concept of, um, elimination (and I’m talking #2’s, deuces, 10-2’s, whatever your preferred nomenclature).  Why I do not know since we partook in it on a daily basis, but that’s not the point.

We were convinced that one day, and there was no telling what day this would happen, but one day we simply wouldn’t be able to eat anymore.  We would finally and truly be full.

My most vivid memory of this belief was a rather lengthy conversation outside a store in a parking lot where we debated how “full” we were.  Imagine three small children standing around pointing at various body parts proclaiming, “I think I’m this full.”  I couldn’t have been older than five or six, and if memory serves, believe we reached a consensus that I was full up to just past my knees.

Did it occur to us that every adult (regardless of age) around us still ate every day, every meal?  No.  Did we think to ask an adult about this subject?  Not that I can remember.

But man, we had some rollicking discussion amongst ourselves and the fervor of our belief both amuses and boggles me today.

I like to think of it as “Little Kid Logic.”  I’m sure it’s the basis for our future analytic abilities, our knack (or lack thereof) of figuring things out.

The three of us dreaded the day when we’d be unable to eat another cookie, or ice cream, or spaghetti.  As I got older I dreaded the day anyone found out I believed something so ridiculous. 

As an adult I find it endearing and am thankful for such an entertaining connection back to my childhood self.  And now, I turn my attention to my kids, waiting eagerly to see what kinds of explanations they come up with.

And you?  What kind of Little Kid Logic did you come up with as a child (or have your children come up with?).  Please share, I’d love to hear your stories…

Back To Square One

I still have twenty pounds to lose. 

There it is.  I thought this process went slowly after Eli, was irritated that I had to wear maternity clothes for two months after he was born.  I would scold myself, “Woman, you need to put those maternity jeans away.”  But they were just so comfortable.  And, the only pants that fit.

Now, I can’t believe that I managed to pack away the last of my maternity clothes two months after Eli was born.  It took me four months after Sophie was born to pack away the last of my maternity clothes, and honestly, I could have kept wearing many of them except for the fact that it was beginning to give me a major complex.

When I look at it from a rational standpoint it’s simple:  I had ten pounds left of Eli baby weight to lose when I got pregnant with Sophie, and now I’m down to the last ten pounds of Sophie baby weight.  That doesn’t sound so bad.  The problem occurs when I add those two numbers and see: 20.

To me that is a lot of weight.  Two years before Eli was born I wanted to lose ten pounds.  I’ve never been one to lose weight based on my diet.  For the most part I eat healthy, and even when I make a push to eat healthy all the time I never lose more than a pound, two at most.  And it must be pointed out: I like to eat.  A lot.  Thankfully most of my indulgences don’t involve fast food, processed food, or grease.  But sometimes they do.

No, for me to lose any weight I literally have to beat it off my body.  I have to sweat buckets to lose one pound.  So after a year of trying to lose weight, of exercising on a regular basis, I managed to lose seven whole pounds.  On the one hand, this was devastating.  Really?  Seven pounds in a year?  What kind of progress is that?  From a numbers standpoint it sounds like a terrific failure.

On the other hand, from a how-do-I-feel standpoint, it was perfect.  Although I would have preferred my final weight to have been five pounds less, I had to accept the fact that when I ate reasonably and exercised this was my body’s comfortable resting weight.  I could maintain this weight without depriving myself of any food, and by exercising a reasonable amount. 

More importantly, I felt good, fit, and didn’t find myself cringing in front of the mirror, or hiding when someone got out the camera (well, yeah, I still did that, but on the inside I was protesting less).

But now?  TWENTY pounds.  I feel like I am getting ready to climb Everest.

Here’s the thing:  I like working out.  I really, really do.  I like to go jogging.  I love riding my bike.  I like to lift weights when I have access to them.  Working out feels good, and has always been a huge stress reliever for me. 

The challenge is: how do I do these things when I never sleep, when Vinny works 70-80 hours a week, and when we are displaced from our normal surroundings (and my jogging stroller)?

The easy answer is: since I’m not sleeping I can find time somewhere, when Vinny is off on weekends I can get to the gym, and I’ve found some trails to take walks on with the kids.

This is going to take longer than I would like it to.  Getting to the gym (the only perk of living in an apartment complex again) once a week isn’t going to do it. 

But it’s a start.  After I work out I feel like my old self again.  I can barely jog a mile without feeling like I am going to toss my cookies, the amount of weight I am lifting is laughable, and seeing myself in the wall-to-wall mirrors does little for my self-esteem.

I don’t care.  It feels like I am starting over in every way.  In many ways, I am.  Having a baby takes a toll.  I had two in seventeen months.  Now I wish I could go back in time and shake my two-months-postpartum-with-Eli self and say, “Hey!  You!  You’re putting your maternity clothes away after two months?  Congratulations!  That’s awesome!   No, it really is.” 

My hope is there will come a point (again) when I look back at this time and say:  “You went to the gym after being up all night, running errands, doing housework and then spending the rest of the day with your family?  You didn’t collapse into bed and say ‘I’m too tired?’  That’s awesome!  No, it really is.”