It's exercise AND diet. Celery with dates, almonds, and Parmesan

Before I became pregnant, I never really thought about my size. I guess that's a privilege of being small. I knew I felt good when I exercised and I didn't really have to really pay attention to what I ate as far as calories go. I craved fresh fruits and veggies. I could eat a spoonful of ice cream and be satisfied. I enjoyed drinking water.

Enter pregnancy:

I didn't want fruits or vegetables. I didn't want to eat at all. Then I realized I was starving and I ate whatever I could get my paws on. I ate bowls of ice cream every day. I didn't workout.

I justified my lifestyle by thinking that it didn't matter how big I got, I could work it off after my baby was born. 

Clearly, that's not working out so well for me. Three months in, and I'm still feeling very blimp-like. I don't feel like buying ANOTHER wardrobe. (Blazer, yes. Wardrobe, no.) So I started going to this class, which stirred something strange in me: A desire for salad. For fresh fruits. For water.

Here's something ABSOLUTELY delicious that isn't 900 calories:

Celery salad with dates, almonds, and Parmesan.

Thank you, Bon Appetite!

Evidently there are dishes out these involving celery that I actually want to eat!

Here's the deal:

1/2 cup raw almonds

8 celery stalks, thinly sliced on a diagonal, leaves separated (yeah, it uses the leaves! I feel so grown up.)

6 dates, pitted, coarsely chopped

3 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice

Kosher salt, freshly ground pepper

2oz. Parmesan, shaved (which I did not have. I used Parrano because I am obsessed with it and it's what I had. It never disappoints)

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

Crushed red pepper flakes

Toast almonds in oven at 350 degrees on a rimmed baking pan for 8-10 minutes. (Toasted nuts are my new favorite thing because of their deeper flavor.) Once cool, coarsely chop.

Toss almonds, dates, celery, celery leaves with salt and pepper. Add Parmesan and oil. Mix. Season with red pepper flakes. Enjoy!

I put leftovers in the refrigerator and a happy to report that, 24 hours later, it still tastes just as good as it did the first time and is still crunchy (no soggy nuts!).

The journey back to my old pants, part 1.

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I became pregnant and gained 70 pounds. SEVENTY POUNDS!

It may be the craziest thing I've ever done: My knees hate me, my clothes don't fit, I'm wearing stretchy pants forever, and I've decided to start weighing myself in stone. 70 pounds is 5 stone, which sounds less bad. We should start a thing.

Confession: I went from a size 4 to a 14 plus. I say plus because I refused to try on larger pants in the month after my son was born; I felt like a walking potato. And, never having been big-ish, I had (still have) NO idea how to dress myself! I don't know how to hide my hips and belly. The Georgia weather does nothing to help me because I turn into a sweat monster within ten seconds of walking out the door, so layers are out.

Three months into this motherhood gig, and the weight is coming off. 

Verrrrrry slowwwwwwwly.

So I decided to give it a little shove.

Enter Takeela. 

An energetic sprite (who is probably a bodybuilder),  Takeela teaches "Butts N' Guts" at the hole in the wall gym near my parents' house. And Oh. Myyyyyy.

I took her Monday night class a week ago. I think I recovered by about 5pm Thursday. My everything hurt. Like I've just started boot camp hurt. Only now instead of laying in bed or floating in the pool, I'm carting a kid. Up and down stairs. I die.

I'm totally going back.

National Running Day

It's dawning on me that today is National Running Day. And I am not running. I can't run. Like, doctor's orders. Not for another month. And it kills me. I miss running. Le sigh. 

I hope someone will hit up some juicy trails, run with a friend, and have a cold beer at the finish line for me!

Even though I can't run, I still win! I have this nugget in exchange for not running right now...

And I love him!

What NOT to say

I've said it before: if you wouldn't say it to a non- pregnany person, why do you think it's ok to say to a (hormonally charged) pregnant one?

A little background:

For the record, I am large. I mean, in the middle. 49" to be exact. Which is almost double my waist pre-pregnancy, but I digress...

I went out in public today, so maybe I was asking for it... 

"It" being the commentary from the peanut gallery. 

Between the stares, there are comments like these:

Woman on Patio, eating lunch: Are you having twins? No? Oh, Lawd, chille! Dat baby's gonna be too big to come out!

Me: eye daggers. 

Woman working at Ikea: You're pregnant?! But you're so big!

Me: What? I can't be big AND pregnant? Or, I dunno... Pregnancy is The Reason for my gigantosaurus belly!? Ugh.

Woman in grocery parking lot: Oh. My. Gawd. You have a litter in there?

Me: Yes. I want to put Octomom to shame. So I opted for 11. 

Woman at Target: Oh, I know you have got to be ready to pop! I can't imagine ever being that big! In fact, I was much smaller when I had mine... Blah, blah, blah....

Me: Eff you.

No, I did not actually make these replies, but I secretly really wanted to. And, yes, these are actual comments that I heard today.

What the crap is wrong with people?!

Let's take a look at some Things Acceptable to Say to a Pregnant Woman:

You look fantastic! (Lying is acceptable/ preferred here. Particularly if she looks like a land manatee.)

I wish you a happy birthing.

I hope your baby is healthy.

I hope you're not too uncomfortable. (Warning: This only works when in established conversation. If you say it at start of conversation, there will be no convo as you've just suggested preggers lady looks uncomfortable. Fail.)

I bought you a massage/ pedicure/ glass of wine. (You may be adored forever for this one. At the very least, you will not be forgotten. Which is major, considering pregnant ladies have no memory.)

You're going to be the best mom!

That is one lucky kid.

That's not so hard, right? There are other things one could say that do not involve making a future mama want to throat punch the speaker. But seriously, if you can't think of one, don't speak.

Proof women are capable of saving money

We have been planning on painting a mural in our son's room. Like a "Hey! You have an aquarium in your room and it takes up the whole wall!" kind of mural.

I found a muralist whose work I adore, and she was going to paint this fantastic design on canvas and mail it to us...
I finally got pricing back today.

Me: "Honey, I just saved us almost $10,000."
Mike: "WHAAAT?!?!"
Me: "Yeah. I just heard back from the mural people. I called and asked about pricing for several different canvases. One was 8 x 12, the other was 6 x 10. The bigger one was 9000 something in the smaller one was 6000 something. They had another option: 5' by 8' for $2500."
Stunned silence.
Me: "I think I'm going to paint our mural."
Mike: "Uhhhh.... Yeah.... I was thinking we would pay somebody 500 bucks to paint directly on the wall..."
Me: "Great! You can pay me!"
He fails to see the humor. Or he is still trying to collect his jaw from the floor.

I think I'm getting to the point of being full o' baby. Like, the up to my chin with baby kind of full o' baby.
I have no idea what size I am anymore.
Shoes definitely do not fit. I tried on a pair of running shoes the other day and wanted to cry because they were far bigger than my non-pregnant feet would wear, yet they weren't big enough. And who knows how big my feet will be when they're done doubling as marshmallows?
In clothing, I'm somewhere between small and large. Like, I wear all three sizes- from the same company! Riddle me that. Most days, I think about going to a thrift shop, buying a few flat sheets, cutting a hole in the middle big enough to put my head through, and belting the sucker.I could get some lovely floral patterns, I'm sure.
So yeah, aside from feeling a little like the Stay-Puff, things are good.
I've been a nurse for almost two weeks (officially), My Sweet Husband and I are on a wild home hunt (please pray, cross your fingers, excise demons, do a rain dance, or whatever you do for good ju-ju in hopes we find one soon!!), and I am holding open auditions for foot gnomes. Or fairies. Or anyone else willing to rub my potatoes feet on command.
One thing I was a little unprepared for in my third trimester is the sensation that I am the Very Hungry Caterpillar. Like, All. The. Time.

Did you know you can rent maternity clothes?
My sister turned me on to Rent the Runway a while back. It's a site where you can rent couture clothing. Only I've had no use or it 'cause I don't go anywhere fancy. I'd be renting Oscar de la Renta and Calvin Klein dresses to vacuum the house in. And those dresses deserve better than that.
But I started thinking about renting maternity clothes back when I had my husband's Christmas party to go to. I had a bump that was not going to be concealed, no matter how hard I tried. I went shopping for dresses, but had  a really hard time justifying the price for a dress I was going to wear once. Hence my desire for renting maternity clothes.
It turns out that you can rent everything from jeans to designer dresses for far cheaper than buying most maternity clothing.
I was reminded of this in this morning's email blast that let me know I had a coupon waiting.
But what the maternity rental clothing place fails to realize is that I am to the point in pregnancy where I would like new skin. A whole new body, really.
I am not so fond of this third trimester morning sickness business. And who came up with that name anyway? They should be shot.
There are about four hours out of the day where I don't feel nauseous for hours before puking, and I am sleeping the majority of that time. Not even zofran helps.
Have I mentioned that it is awesome to be me?
I have friends running half marathons and talking about it like they do it in their sleep. I have friends running ultra marathons. I think they do it with one eye open. Me? My mega accomplishment? Making it around the block or up the stairs without huffing and puffing. And I mean waling, not running.
I caught a glimpse of myself as I ran passed some store windows while trying on running shoes (I can't seem to wedge my puffy tootsies into any of my current shoes, which makes walking challenging.

Wanna know a secret? 

I didn't go to water aerobics Thursday. I couldn't bear the thought of a) becoming a stuffed sausage getting into a swimsuit b)getting into water that wasn't immediately warm c) going anywhere.

I went for a walk around the block instead. 

I took the dogs. 

I was almost thinking I felt normal when a man stopped me to talk. More precisely, he stopped me and proceeded to yell at me from across the street about his dog and how she looked like my dogs. Except with stumpy legs. On his fourth repeat, I prayed Charlie would see a squirrel and take off after it, thus evacuating me from further attempts at conversation. 

When I finally I turned away, I began to cry uncontrollably. FOR NO REASON. 

...Stupid hormones.

Just when I was thinking I might be less cray cray today, Mike and I may have gotten into an argument. About baby laundry and which detergent to use. I don't remember all the details, but basically I was going to use All Free and Clear, like I've used forever, and he mentioned something about it being "safe for babies", and I was all "um..." and he was stressing about something else and insisting I not use the same detergent for our precious unborn, and I was amazed that he even thought about it, really.

Ten minutes later, I walked into my mom's house with an armload of baby clothes. And unlike every other female I know, she did not ask to see them. Instead, she said, "You going to do laundry? You know that All Free and Clear is safe for babies."

Faaaaantastic.

just being real

And because I finished ate an entire pint of ice cream before 11 am, I give you this:

“What is REAL?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When [someone] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”    

In favor of being real, I share my Morning Warning:

I'm a little cranky. 

And by a little I mean that I ate an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's. The ENTIRE thing.

I've never done that before.

Today I need an emotional sign post for anyone who comes within a 25 foot radius of me. 

"I may cry uncontrollably if you look this direction"

I'm like Medusa, only backwards.

I need a second sign: 

"I'm having a hard time right now and I need to bitch about it for 2 minutes. I need you to listen, hug me, tell me that it sucks, and then offer me a drink/ offer to throat punch the offender/ offer ice cream/ offer a Kleenex/ offer diamonds or something similar."

Unfortunately for me, I did not have this sign this morning when talking to my sweet husband. (In fact, I usually forget this sign when in conversation with a man and end up regretting it.) On second thought, perhaps it is more unfortunate for him because I ended up in tears. Before 8AM. And you know it's a bad day when there's tears before 8am.

Thank heavens I get to go hang out with the Blue Hairs tonight. 

Yeah, you heard me. I'm taking a water aerobics class to avoid Mommy Butt. It's not really working (see first statement of this post), but it lets me pretend I'm not totally becoming one with the couch.

I've been going twice a week (this is week 3). The class on Tuesdays is hilarious. well, not so much the class, as me, trying to do some kind of dance routine under water.

If you've ever read this blog (or met me in real life), you probably know that I... um, see video. It explains better.

 

So yeah, Little Miss Coordination here tries to pretend I can do the watusi, electric slide, cha-cha, and whatever newfangled moves the drill sargent instructor comes up with. Tuesday it was Gangnam Style. And great Balls of Fire. And some Latin- inspired thing that my body protests. If you think cha-cha isn't so hard, I invite you to try it when you are up to your neck in water. It's just not the same. Trust.

While I don't know how many hip swivels are in store tonight, I do know I'll feel a lot better after the water boarding Fun Time With Blue Hairs is over.

Meanwhile, try to avoid looking my direction, lest you get hit by one of the involuntary lasers/ tears coming out of my eyes.

Pregnancy is weird, yo.

Confession: I've been afraid to post anything on here related to pregnancy due to an unfounded fear of my son being all "Muh-om! Gawd, you're soo embarrassing!". 

As though I could ever escape that.

The truth is, being pregnant is weird. 

That's the best I can come up with. Seriously. I've lived in a pregnant state for the last 29 weeks and all I can say is that it's weird. 

Also, I can't post anything without mentioning that I'm pregnant. If I'm talking about me, I'm talking about being pregnant. And sometimes it gets old. I like to pretend that I'm more than just a human oven (Ok, yeah, that sounds Hansel and Gretel meet the Nazis gross. Sorry.)

Being pregnant consumes me. 

I mean, discovering that my body has hidden talents, like peeing on command and growing a life is cool and all. Too often they get negated by my other talents: smelling everything and puking for no good reason.

I think I started showing when I was about 20 minutes pregnant. And to all of the kind people who point out that I am "reaaally big, and I am I sure there's only one, and oh my goodness I'm just sooo freaking huge!": 

Shut Up.

Also, I am not about to "pop". That makes me sound like I belong in the diner in Spaceballs. And there ain't no way you'll find me there. 

Ever.

I would have been really excited about my growing tits if I didn't have a melon of growing proportions stuffed under my shirt at the same time. I feel cheated out of my Playmate of the Year moment. I understand the next step is for them to be saggy and leaky. 

Note to National Geographic: thanks for skipping the leaky part.

I'm also starting to feel cheated out of my maternity clothes. Yeah, the ones I just bought. My belly is peeking out of the bottom of maternity t shirts. And shoes? I'm pretending that it doesn't matter that I have exactly one pair of shoes that fit because I can't see my feet. How do other pregnant women even wear cute shoes?? My feet and fingers sausages are so swollen, I can hardly wear socks and I mostly can't wear my rings.

And that bit everyone keeps mentioning about how lucky I am to be pregnant in winter? The downside to my face (body) not melting off is that flip flops are not quite an option... yay winter. said no one ever.

So, yeah, some if it is really not a lot of fun. I mean, who wants to go shopping when you feel like poo? Or when you discover that clothing companies think maternity means ugly prints in weird cuts (what is it with the extra-wide shouldered tank/ sleeveless shirts, color block prints and random ruffles?!) that no non-pregnant person would ever wear. 

No one likes waking up in the middle of the night to pee, because the baby is kicking, or Just Because. 

I won't get into the weirdness with food. 

except to say that the food I like, I love. 

It has never tasted so good. 

I want to eat twelve of them. It doesn't matter what it is today, because it may not be the same tomorrow. I wish I could say it's carrots that are deliciously enticing. But I'm evidently not one of those women. (Do they even exist?!) That girl went the way of my pre-preggers self. 

No, my food crush is usually ice cream, cookies, or something else that does not constitute a meal in Pregnancy Land.

On the plus side, I am growing a baby. 

And this is a really huge plus. 

I no longer think of him a a parasite, and am starting to dream of having him snuggled up against my chest. I wonder what he is doing inside of me. What is it that keeps him so busy?

Aaaand now I'm crying happy tears. 

What? Did I forgot to mention the random crying?

Excuse me while I go inhale some more ice cream.