We ran for our harvest! Just kidding, we walked. But we didn't DIE.

Remember a few months ago and I told you I was training for my first 5K since my AFE? Well I did really well that first month. I did alright the second month. I did absolutely nothing my third (and most crucial) month. I mean, I did NOTHING. No walking, no jogging, no exercise at all. I did nothing. 

Then I realized the 5K was THAT WEEKEND and I was (rightfully) a little bit worried. 

I mean, I was fairly confident I would finish. I have never, ever been picked up during a race and I was not about to start that tradition now. My fear was the condition in which I would cross that finish line. 

Thankfully, I had my friend Amy with me, and THANK GOD, because had I been alone.... that would have been a sad state of affairs. I know I would have cried. Alone, like a loser. I am pretty sure Amy was trying to keep me talking the whole way so I wouldn't be thinking of the fact we were dead last for most of the race. (Which thank god- because Amy is the best and I am so, SO glad she agreed to do this with me!!!) 

Morning of the race was actually pretty gorgeous out. It was chilly, like mid-30s, but it wasn't awful. If you kept moving it wasn't really that bad, but I am really glad I brought my mittens because I ended up wearing those the entire time. 

Duluth, you're so pretty. 

And you know it. 

The cool thing about this race is that it is almost totally along the shore of Lake Superior but in order to get to the start line, you ride the North Shore Scenic Railroad. It drops you off and you start walking. 

It was kind of cute because as we were pulling up to the starting line, this older couple were standing there waving and suddenly the guy starts running alongside the train!! It was a fun start to the morning for sure. 

This was us, pre-race. We ended up not talking one after the race but I kind of forgot which was probably for the best. Ha! 

Hilariously, once we got off the train we were walking at a pretty decent clip, feeling motivated and like we've got this. 

We got what would be a few city blocks down only to realize we hadn't even crossed the start line yet. 

That was kind of a morale killer. 

So once we got started for real, I felt like we were pulling a pretty good clip. I thought that surely we had some folks behind us and that would be fine. There was a guy, who I think had some disabilities of some kind because he had a guy with him who was motivating him. Telling him to go faster so he'd run a little while and this guy was just walking. Anyways, Amy realized this guy was using us as a pacer. Every time we caught up, he would have this guy run and so he'd take off. After awhile it got a little frustrating because that puts us dead last and by mile two I was starting to feel my morals take a dive and I decide that if we are pulling up to the finish and I see this guy, I'm willing to sprint and push people out of the way. I'm not coming in last. NOT TODAY, SATAN. 

Also by mile two I feel like my cortisol levels are taking a total nose dive and you know those old Energizer Bunny commercials where he starts to slow down and eventually stops? That is exactly what I feel like- it's like I can actually feel my ability to function slow down and then I just can't. I know I hung onto Amy at least once and I'm like- please god just let me finish this because I had enough people telling me this was stupid, I shouldn't be doing this race, I'm going to be sick, etc. Doctors and people who know me had been telling me variations of that for weeks. 

And justifiably so because I really hadn't done anything to show them that I think I actually can do this. 

But by about 2.5 miles in we pass the guy and his coach and I'm like.... if I can just keep this pace... I'll be OK. Granted, this pace is ridiculously slow. By the time I could see the finish line, I actually thought I was going to collapse. 

But we finished. 

I got excited knowing that guy was behind us so we didn't finish last. 

BUT. 

According to the website, her and I came in last for walkers. That guy must have registered as a runner. 

Obviously, that is my worst time for a 5K, for running or walking. 

BUT! 

I am trying really hard not to thinking about how far I've gone down in fitness but focusing on the fact I finished a 5K when everyone said I couldn't. I actually FINISHED. 

In the aftermath, I can't say that I've done a whole lot of fitness stuff, but I can say I'm honestly thinking about it more. I'm pumping myself up. I remember doing this before and that led me to losing a lot of weight, running 5K's regularly, and exercising a lot. So in my time of mentally preparing myself, I've been following Running Fat Chef online through her blog, Facebook, and Instagram and just really listening to what she's saying. It also made me reminisce about the time when I was really hard core about fitness and I did a Weightloss Challenge. Do any of you guys remember that? I only vaguely did but I know going back to watch all of my old vlogs was kind of hilarious, kind of made me cry because I miss that Sara a whole lot, but also made me feel like maybe I can do this again. 

So let's do this again. 

Go back and see my first vlog and we're going to kick this off. 

PS) You guys, it's taken all this time but I finally understand the accent you all say I have. I feel shame. I hate that I have an accent. GAH!! 

Flappy core, motivational whipping, probably going to die

This has been a fairly insane week. I committed to a lot of things this week because I'm at the point now where I'm getting really angry about not being at the level that I used to be. Realistically, I can't be at that level. But I'm angry. So I sign up for a lot of things, can't do them, then I'm angry at myself because I can't do it and let people down. Cue shame and guilt and that my friends... is what's keeping me around. My therapist will flat out tell you she doesn't work with me on any of that because if that's what keeps me here then it needs to stay.

Sigh. 

I started the week off with therapy. I feel like that's a really good way to start the week, to be honest. I make a lot of my therapy appointments on Monday. But this was in the evening so I have a friend who got Olivia to dance and I was able to pick her up. (But also cry in my car for a solid hour after without her seeing, so that's a bonus win.) Therapy was tough and I can't imagine not having that safe space to get out everything I hold in during the week. 

Also this week I made a goal of wanting to work out in some capacity three times a week. I know, I know, I KNOW I have made this goal a lot this year but I am sticking to it. I just can't handle this weight anymore and I'm getting so frustrated. Clearly moderating my diet is doing nothing because I'm down to a structured 1200 calories a day for the last six months and I've gained ten pounds over that time. Like... what the hell?? 

So in my quest of finding something low impact to get my started I settled on a pre and post natal workout program on Beachbody on Demand. I figure if pregnant and just given birth women can do it, I can do it. 

 Lucy tried participating as well. That was her version of a modified plank. She mostly just whipped me with resistance bands and that actually started to hurt once she got the hang of it. 

I did that on Tuesday and to be honest, I felt like it was more of a stretching workout and that this maybe wasn't going to have much impact at all. Like maybe it was TOO low impact. 

Wednesday I couldn't get down the stairs and had to scoot. I couldn't sit on the toilet, let alone get off of it. (Obviously, I did not take a Linzess pill.) I was so surprised at how badly my legs and my arms/shoulders hurt. 

Yesterday my legs hurt so bad that I had a hard time walking as much as I did. My workout yesterday consisted of hauling Lucy in/out of her car seat a LOT and walking her in and out of buildings. Which I know sounds stupid, but we walked about a mile and a half in all. I was EXHAUSTED by the time I got home with Penelope and Lucy. 

 I have to just share this photo. This was on Tuesday and for a good portion of my workout she sat in the chair, patiently waiting for her lunch time movie. She was pretty good about it after she stopped whipping me. 

But all of this freaks me out because tomorrow? Tomorrow I do the first 5K I've done in oh.... three years? I'm doing the Fitger's Harvest Run with my friend Amy and we're both going to walk the 3.1 miles. The kicker is that I did not finish my "training" so technically I have not actually walked three miles in about three years. So yeah... I am confident I will make it across the finish line but I am not confident I'll be able to move on Sunday. 

Stay tuned. 

Super great share from this week came from my friend Jennie. Her sister was having her baby at the same hospital I've had all of my kids but when you first come in on the window sill is the plaque I gave them in recognition of saving my life. It has the picture of when I first met Lucy (while awake) and basically saying this hospital is equipped and capable of saving you should this happen to you. It was really pretty but it's kind of nice to see it again. I've actually had people say (after hearing my story) that they saw something at the hospital and I say, that was me! So maybe not everyone knows what an AFE is, but they see this and maybe decide to Google it. The more people know about it, the more we can save. 

So that was my week. Wish me luck for tomorrow. I'll take pictures and report back on Monday!

Saying goodbye.

A few weeks ago I posted briefly about my Grandpa dying. It really hit us suddenly because we had just lost Grandma and literally the day of her funeral my Grandpa complained that his stomach hurt. Fast forward a couple of weeks and it turns out he had stage four pancreatic cancer that had spread to his stomach. We knew it would be fast but honestly we all thought we'd get the holidays with him. At least with Grandma she fought for two years and it was a slow decline so we all really had the time to get used to knowing she would be gone. It was a sad funeral but we all knew it would happen and by then it felt like a blessing so she didn't have to endure any more. With Grandpa it just felt really cruel because we all thought we were going to have more time. 

But that's not what we got. 

His decline was actually pretty rapid and my parents were there every step of the way and that was such a blessing. Both Grandma and Grandpa expressed being scared about the end and I think no matter how prepared you are, we all get scared. You are walking into an unknown and nobody can tell us what it was like. They're gone and we just hope it's gentle and not scary. 

Heck- I've technically died twice and I have nothing to report. I don't remember any of it so I don't know if there is a bright light or someone to guide you. It really scares me when I think about it. 

I was really bummed because I had planned on visiting him that weekend because I would have Matt home to watch the kids and I figured I could go up for a while and watch game shows with him. I didn't get that chance because he passed away peacefully on September 11, the day before him and Grandma's anniversary. Honestly, I really hope that was on purpose and I hope we do get to see our loved ones and I really hope him and Grandma are together. That's really the only peace in all of this. So I didn't get to see him and my dad sent me a message letting me know while I was at the Bruno Mars concert and my drive home was pretty emotional. 

When I told Olivia and Jackson the next day they were pretty upset. They had gone to Grandma's funeral so they knew what to expect and I wasn't worried about that. We got the funeral details and planned our day around that. 

The visitation was sad. The moment we walked in Jackson burst in tears. I hadn't expected that but I think maybe the whole thing just overwhelmed him. We sat and talked about the fun things he got to do with Grandpa and his favorite memories of Grandpa. My Grandpa really was a gentle giant. He was tall and always muscular and he was a Vietnam veteran. He saw John McCain's plane go down, he did special missions, he was a big deal during the war. He never talked about it and we all kind of knew it was hard to talk about but he was well respected. He was to get full honors at the burial, and I had never seen that so I was excited to see that and for my Grandpa no less. 

But I was surprised Jackson asked for me to go with him to the casket. Neither kid wanted to go up for Grandma and I said it was OK because it was their first funeral and I'm not going to make them do anything. But Jackson really wanted to see Grandpa and honestly, do you know what I remember the most about my Grandpa? His hands. He had lost so much weight and was so thin but to me, his hands looked just the same. 

He was buried at Fort Snelling and that's where Grandma is so we knew where we were going. The strange thing about national cemeteries is the casket is put on a pedestal of concrete, you say a quick prayer and comment, and then you have to literally go. You get maybe 15 minutes because they have that many funerals there every day. I remember with Grandma when we left I felt so terrible just leaving her there like even though there's a guard there. And with Grandpa, I was such a dang mess I didn't really look as we left. But there was a soldier standing there and it just felt so respectful. 

Flags throughout are at half staff because a soldier was being buried.  

 I had never seen a flag folding ceremony be done and this was the only non blurry photo I got because I was crying and shaking so badly. 

They had a gun salute and I've never seen it happen before and man- it was somber. My dad gave my kids the gun shells from this. 

This was easily, the saddest funeral I have ever been to. I have ever cried that hard at a funeral and literally everybody there was in tears. The funeral home people were in tears because they knew my Grandpa after burying Grandma and it just felt like we really lost a good one. 

Jackson cried the ENTIRE way home. I mean, he was legitimately distraught and I felt like I had no idea what I could do for him. 

But it occurred to me later that night, we were all in our stages of grief, but Jackson was crying at dinner and I had said to him, "It's OK bud, don't cry." and I didn't think anything of it. Until bedtime and it struck me that it's such an automatic thing we say but it's such a terrible message. I want him to know he can cry as long as he wants and that it's totally OK. So I called him into my room and I explain that to him and we're talking about death and dying, and he asks me if I will bring him to Florida when my other grandparents die. My heart broke a little more and promised I would. He wanted to know if he could have something of Grandpa's to remember him by and I said I would see what I could do. 

My dad totally came through and he got a dresser but both kids got these very cool military coin/medallion things and these coin holders my grandpa ALWAYS had. 

But you know what gutted me? My dad was going through my Grandpa's important papers from a safe and he came across an envelope we had sent him a few years ago. I open it up and it was two handmade Veteran's Day card Olivia and Jackson had made him. I couldn't believe he had kept them. With important papers, no less. My kids loved them so much and I know my grandparents loved them so much more in return. 

It just really feels like the end of an era. All of our holidays for the last 20+ years have revolved around getting together with them. I always counted on a cookie plate and pie from Grandma for Christmas. Grandpa would tell jokes. Even when I really messed up a holiday dish they would tell me it was fine. Grandma would tell me I have the worse baster and I needed new lights in my kitchen. Scoff at jarred gravy and quickly make real gravy. I think that's when it's going to really hit me. I'm sad now but I think when these moments should be happening and they don't- it'll hit me. 

Oh! But I have to tell you quick before I go. So years ago, when Furbies where popular, my Grandpa was obsessed with them. He had a LOT. Like a whole room full. We got him one as a joke for Christmas one year but he really took a liking to these. When they moved Grandma finally got him to sell some and we joked at the funeral that man, we hope they aren't in the storage unit and all come to life when someone opens the door! Well it turns out, one Furby was left. It hadn't gotten sold and my dad gave it to Jackson. That kid has been playing with this Furby more than any toy since his Batman Batcave when he was 3. I'm not even kidding. 

"Every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time." - 'What Sarah Said', Death Cab for Cutie

Jello Jiggies

It seems like an odd way to begin a tribute to my grandma Linda, but it's true. I'll always remember her for a lot of things but mostly for her Jello Jigglers, which my kids called "jiggies".

About two years ago, shortly before I had Lucy, my grandma Linda was diagnosed with cancer. It was in her bile duct, which is random and weird, and though she exhausted every medical avenue, it proved too much for her. She fought like hell all the way to the end but last week she gained her angel wings. We knew it was coming, I had been prepared since I heard about it, but it's never quite the same, you know?

Olivia and Jackson have great memories of her and grandpa Dennis, they went to every kid movie that came out, they've done sleep overs, gone to the Wilderness Walk together, and now that they were getting older they wanted to do more trips with the kids. The kids were SO excited about that.

I'm grateful that she did get to see Lucy before they moved and she got sicker. They were some of the first people to hold Lucy and that will always be special. Grandma Linda had a pretty cool life but she was always an example that you're never too old to live out a dream. She went to college, graduated with honors, and then retired. I'm sorry her and grandpa didn't get to travel more like they wanted to.

But let's talk about some fond memories that I have. Grandma Linda is actually my step-dad's step-mom, so she's like a step-step-Grandma, but she was always just grandma to me. When we moved to Cloquet in 1991 she took my brother and I in like we had always been her grand kids. I remember holidays at their home, and coming over a few weeks before to put window clings on all of her windows. She would bring just me and I'd get to decorate every window while she made cookies and I always got to go home with a plate. I remember spending the weekend while my parents went on a trip. I remember seeing her drive, only once ever, when she picked me up so we could go see The Babysitter's Club movie in the theater.

When I had children she loved them fiercely. She was at every birthday, always sent cards with envelopes decorated in stickers, and was quick to email me back.

But back to Jello. When we were growing up grandma Linda had Jello Jigglers for every holiday. Honest to god, if there was a jiggler mold, she had it. One Christmas she made Jello trees and for whatever reason my brother and I were goofing around and he threw one at me. It went high, hit the wall of the stairwell so high that nobody could reach it. So there we were, one Christmas evening, balancing on the ledge with a bar of Avon soap tied to a yard stick with a wash cloth, in an attempt to wash the wall.

It obviously didn't work and that stain was there for years until it was painted over only two years ago. My mom never knew what caused the stain.

Fast forward to being a parent and hosting holiday dinners, grandma Linda always brought pie, deviled eggs (because I can't make them without gagging but all of the guys love them), a side dish, and Jello jigglers. Without fail. My kids began to expect them so she was making large quantities of these jigglers and pretty soon all four kids would get excited when they saw the tray of them.

Shortly after Christmas 2017 I got a box in the mail from Grandma. Not very heavy but large. When I opened it up and saw it was packed full of her Jello molds I knew that we weren't going to have her much longer. She must have known because for her to pass them onto me was a big deal. I remember looking through them all, having memories of each one, and crying because there would never be anyway to replace her. Her presence will be missed at every holiday dinner and every birthday party. I can no longer expect the best tray of Christmas cookies ever. Or pie. Because I hate baking pies.

On Easter I was getting dishes ready and Olivia asked me if I had made any jiggies. I hadn't. But I got down the molds, found a couple of boxes of Jello, and we made big eggs and some little jelly beans. I remember taking a picture of my molds chilling in the fridge and texting her to let her know they were already being used. I got back a smiley face.

We emailed and texted until she couldn't anymore. Olivia wrote letters regularly and texted her updates about school. Poor Olivia is heartbroken that she's passed but she understands the circumstances. I know I told her how much she meant to me and I shared some favorite memories that I have of her, and I told her I loved her. But it feels like you can never say those things enough to someone. It never feels like enough.

Today Matt and I, along with Olivia and Jackson, will attend her funeral and burial. I'm heartbroken and it doesn't even matter that we all know we'll bury people we love. Though I know it, it doesn't make it any easier.

Workout Wednesday: So maybe my lungs AREN'T so hot.

I can't remember when I talked about maybe needing an inhaler because I didn't do so hot with my pulmonary function test. As it turns out there is something to that. I tried to do a walk/run on my treadmill after a particularly stressful afternoon and I could not stop coughing afterwards. Not just that but the cough felt wet, like I had fluid in my lungs. 

I can only assume that's not normal. 

So back to doing minimal working out until I can figure out how to deal with that. I've been trying to do the Beachbody YouV2 program and man... that guy is so annoying. Ugh. 

 On this particular day I finished day one but I could only do it by muting him and playing my own playlist. Infinitely better. 

I continue with my recumbent bike and as you can see I do it among the chaos of toys. Sometimes I read while I'm doing it and that helps make the time pass without me counting down the time miserably. Sometimes I'll text someone or peruse Facebook and Instagram and catch up on what my friends with lives are doing. I really can't wait until spring and I can walk outside. 

We filled out an application for a scholarship for a YMCA membership and I'm kind of scared but I think it would be good for me. It would give  me an excuse to leave the house, and I know enough people who take classes that I could buddy up and not be alone should I pass out or something crazy. 

Workout Wednesday: Stella needs to find some groove

I'm doing such a horrible job working out, I'm almost ashamed I'm even talking about it. I think there are only two things keeping me motivated to try, this blog and what I have planned in April.

First up, you guys are HARSH but in a good way and I need to be called out on my crap when I suck. And right now? I suck. I know it, you know it, we all know it. I will tell you that this week I've done my recumbent bike a few times for at least a mile each time and I've done my treadmill twice. Fun fact, tomorrow I'll talk about my visit to the pulmonary place for testing, but guess what? You guys- my wheezing is a thing. It's not just me being fat, there's something not super with my lungs. So last night I ran on my treadmill for a song and then walked for another 10 minutes and swear on your life, my lungs were on FIRE. I had a wet cough, wheezing, my chest felt like it had been hit by a semi, the whole bit for almost an hour afterwards. I did the doctor online thing and they recorded this in my file (in case I forget by the time I get to my appointment which is 100% likely) and told me not to do that again until I see them. So I'll stick to my bike for a bit and hope for the best.

But you guys, it's practically February and I have this thing in April. I need to lose like 60 pounds by then, ideally.

Ha!

On Black Friday I decided on a complete whim, after being complemented on my eyes online by a lovely women's group, to sign up for a boudoir photo shoot. I almost did one years ago but couldn't because Matt's grandma was having a birthday party the same day and that was more important considering it was her last one, literally. But I wish I was as fat now as I was then because shit, bitch- I was THIN compared to now. This time I am going into it 100% terrified knowing full well my body is not in any way sexy. I'm reading a book right now where the character is in the process of losing weight but still sees herself as massive and everyone around her assures her she's hot, she just doesn't see it. I hope that's the case here but man... I don't feel it. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm just glad that I didn't do March or February, I still have some chance to tone something up. These photographers are amazing though and everything I've seen has been incredible and beautiful so I'm cautiously optimistic. I'm giving them (hopefully) to Matt as an anniversary present but it's a surprise!! Don't tell him. I might be more nervous to give them to him because in a previous conversation, AFTER I booked this, he mentioned how he thinks this kind of thing is dumb so that's great. Hopefully they'll be so great it'll change his mind.

I just really wish it were summer, or at least warmer, so I could get outside for walks. I might actually take up mall walking because I feel like I could find a friend to do that with me at least. Matt went down to a local agency to see if we qualify for a reduced cost YMCA membership because no way could I afford a full priced one, but I know I have friends who go there and I do better with a buddy. I need someone to do things with me, preferably someone in just as rough of shape as me. Ha! That way we can trip over equipment and feel like we are going to die together!

What are you doing? Are you doing anything to stay in shape in 2018? Have you ever done a boudoir photo session?

You spin me... to the ground.

I know Workout Wednesday was technically yesterday, but I'm still posting this week to keep myself accountable. I can't even remember when the last time I posted about a workout, and I'm going to be honest, I fell off the wagon as hard as a fat girl could. It's not that I don't realize that I have to start losing weight, but I've really struggled with energy and my entire body hurting.

Long story short, it almost always feels like I have been hit by a car. It reminds me of when I was pregnant with Olivia way back in 2005 and I knew something was up because everything hurt, even my hair. Turns out I was pregnant. This time I can't be pregnant, but they suspect it's just that my body is just out of whack, which is so exciting to hear.

Another challenge I'm facing is that I'm taking steroids for my Sheehan's Syndrome and it's true what they say, steroids make you fat. They make you fat even without over eating.

It's totally depressing.

One thing I've wanted to try is a spin class. Thanks to my local Facebook friends, I learned there is a local gym that has an evening spin class and I can pay as I go. Which is nice because I can't afford a membership anywhere and I really can't go more than once, maybe twice a week, to make a membership feel like I'm getting my money out of it. So I found a friend who wanted to go as well and we went.

You know what nobody told me about spin classes? That your butt is going to hurt and it's going to hurt a lot. My butt was screaming within a minute and the class hadn't even started yet. I will say though, the 45 minutes flew by. I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to make it through the entire class, minus three breaks for less than 30 seconds each, mostly just to get feeling back into my butt. I'm hoping to go again soon because while I don't think I'm going to lose a ton of weight doing it, something is always going to be better than nothing.

Then I decided that February is going to be my 30 Day Shred month. But since February is a short month, I'd start in January. My goal? Not feel like a gross whale for my birthday. If all goes according to plan, my friend Tammy and I are going to Las Vegas for a long weekend/mom's break/my birthday celebration.

And you know what? It sucks as much as I remember it. This will be my third time doing it and this time is, hands down, the hardest. I am so out of shape and it's defeating. Did I even complete day one? No. No, I didn't. I did about half and I had to quit or take a break. I know if I keep at it, I'll have my endurance get better and I'll be able to complete the entire workout. So think positive things. 

My current weight is 220 and my goal weight (where I was pre-Penelope) is 160. That's a LONG road to go. Little bit at a time. 

Emotional eating and math are the worst.

I have a feeling this post is going to upset a few people, maybe in the very least piss enough people off where they feel like saying incredibly mean things about me and declare I am "the worst parent in the world" on Twitter. You know, like the time I dared to complain about a Disney theme park.

(That's a true story, by the way. For weeks I had the worst emails of people actually threatening to call CPS because I complained about dirty tables and the horrific prices on bottled water. Here's a lesson for you, don't ever bad mouth Disney EVER. There are legions of fanatics that will cut you.)

Anyways.

So as most everyone in the world knows, I gave birth to Penelope on April 29. To be fair, I wasn't in stellar shape before I had her. I just wasn't. I wasn't morbidly obese or anything, but I was overweight for my height and I knew that I could, and should, be doing better. But like most people, I don't enjoy exercise, I love chemically processed foods, and I enjoy eating those chemically processed foods.

Throughout my entire pregnancy I gained the normal amount of weight. I watched what I ate and the portions of what I ate. I went on walks fairly regularly and I was really active through my whole pregnancy, even more so towards the end, really. When I gave birth to Penelope, I weighed 193 pounds. Keep in mind, I am only 5'3 (and a quarter, because every little bit helps) so that's a lot of weight on my stature.

Two days before I gave birth to Penelope

Even through my pregnancy I was following Instagram posts that tell you to "take back postpartum" and "be proud" of your post baby body. Those stretch marks are like war wounds! You created a human life, you shouldn't be ashamed of the vessel that made them! 

And yeah, that's all true. It is. It's not to say that I'm not proud of my body. Every day I stare at all three of my kids and am blown away when I think of the fact that I made them. With my own body. Even as Penelope was gently put into my arms, I was amazed to look at her and know that every part of her grew in me. All of her organs, her vital life systems, those were all on me. I did that. It's easily the biggest job a person can have. Just the miracle of life and the science on how a human is conceived, nurtured, and born is amazing. I can't downplay that at all because it's all a fascinating process and until you are right there in that moment I don't think you can really understand it. To know that you created a life. Maybe one of my kids will be famous or do something great in the world and I made them. 

So it's clear that I fully understand what a big deal being pregnant, and giving birth, is. I get it. I'm proud, and I would do it again and again because it was that great. I enjoyed it that much. 

But now I'm only carrying myself around. And I don't care what anyone says, we can fake it to the world, we can declare how proud we are, but somewhere in every mother, there is that little voice that will remind you that you weren't quite as flappy before kids. That voice reminds you that, once upon a time, you were quite the looker. You were a little thinner. A little firmer. You didn't quite feel like everything was all going to hell. 

Maybe it's aging. Maybe this isn't related to having a baby at all, maybe this is the war we fight with aging. Not wanting to let go of what once was, accepting what it is now, and being slightly terrified of what's ahead. 

Whatever it is, it's awful. 

Right now I am in an awful place and it's the worst. It's particularly bad because you do have kind people who'll say, "Wow- you look SO great!" and in my head I'm rolling my eyes and saying, "Um, no. Because you don't realize I'm still wearing my maternity jeans because it's holding all of the flappy skin and fat in, but thanks." You aren't really supposed to say that you feel like crap and hate your post-partum body because people automatically assume you don't love or want your kids ("I would KILL to be able to have a baby!") or maybe they aren't happy with how they look ("But Sara, you just had a baby. It takes 9 months to gain the weight..."). 

I love my kids, I want them all, and I know I just gave birth. I get all of that. 

I'm still feeling fat and I still hate it. Sorry. 

 Currently, I am still 5'3 (and a quarter). I am now 198 pounds.

Yes, you did your math correctly, I am five pounds heavier now than I was when I gave birth. Mathematically, Penelope was 9 pounds when she was born so I should be at least 9 pounds lighter. But NOPE, the world of mathematics and science clearly hates me because it's not working in my favor. And when you look at my pregnant picture and one from last night after my run, it's like, how in the WORLD are you heavier now?

I HAVE NO IDEA, FOLKS. Same scale, nothing has changed.

But here I am.

In the past I was an absolute emotional eater. I mostly ate out of boredom, and it is something I still struggle with. Mostly now my issue is lack of time. I am hardly eating, to be honest. I eat my fiber and protein granola bar in the morning during Penelope's nap, drink my bottle of water and glass of orange juice.

At lunch time, if I'm super lucky, I can eat a quick sandwich and either an apple or grapes, more water.

It's her afternoon nap that is the hardest, I really want to just eat ice cream or crap because I'm tired and bored, but that's when I'll read or do housework to curb that.

At dinner, I make a healthy meal and if I'm lucky, I get a little bit. If I'm not, I go to bed hungry. Sometimes if the day is particularly awful, I will go for my walk/run just so I don't cry from the tiredness and stress.

And yet here I am, gaining effing weight. It's the worst.

I have always had periods where I just hated how I looked and how I felt. It's not like I was ever skinny. I was never that girl in a bikini. I was always that girl with the kangaroo pouch (as Jackson calls it). This isn't a new feeling. But this time it feels especially awful. I had worked for years to get to a size 12 and here I am, wearing my maternity clothes because the though of putting on size 16 or higher again is more than I can handle. I feel like I'm starting all over. You'd think it would be empowering, after all- I know I can do it. I know it's possible. It's just having to do it all again. Knowing how many times I cried because everything on my body hurt.

Also knowing that no matter how much weight I lose, the flaps are still there. My kangaroo pouch is still there. It doesn't go away. Short of cosmetic surgery, I will always look three months pregnant.

So I have to do better. I'm back on my Couch to 5K running routine. I'm signed up for at least one 5K, and I'm signing up for the Minnesota Mile because it's an easy one mile run. I'm going to sign up for some other fall runs I like to do. I'll start my 30 Day Shred again for days I don't run.

In other words, I'm back at it.

I hate it.

I'm depressed and trying not to be.

And I curse genetics. Damn you, genetics.

Not all of us are pill poppers.

Remember my whole post about being sick and having dental issues and maybe starting as a hooker? Of course you do. Well things have taken a turn for the worse and it's really just annoying at this point. I'm on the cusp of 32 and my body is all, "LOL- NOPE" and has basically decided it's over it. It's over everything.

This weekend I felt great. Like, really great. Sure, I was still coughing like a maniac and phlegm was still coming up but it was the first time in weeks (Friday marked five weeks of plague) that I didn't feel weak, tired, feverish, etc. It was kind of grand. So on Saturday I went out with my friend Tammy and had a great day out celebrating my birthday a week early. (Huzzah!) By the time I came home, Matt was in a good mood, I was feeling frisky, and we went on an impromptu date of shopping and a late dinner. When we got home, I won't lie- I was preparing for sexy times. Because when you have the plague for five (!!!) weeks, you got none during that because it's hard to get into something when you are coughing and reaching for Kleenex.

Anyways.

So I'm in the shower. I had a tickle in my throat so I cough. Then I felt something in my side snap. Literally like a twig snapping. Seconds later, pain like nothing I have ever experienced radiates from snapped twig area and I can no longer stand up straight and basically anything I do at this point is excruciating. I managed to get out of the shower but that was about it. Matt had to come help me dry off, get dressed, get into bed and pop Advil. I thought I had broken a rib. Of course, never having done that before I wasn't sure, but what I was sure of was that it was awful pain. But I attempted to get some sleep thinking that if I lay still with a heating pad, it'd just get better.

But then it did not.

Fast forward until 2:00 a.m. and I woke up in extreme pain. Like, child birth felt less painful than this. Matt ends up getting up to help me down the stairs because it's clear laying on my back is not going to happen. I had hopes that if I could just prop myself up on the couch that maybe then I could get a few hours of sleep.

Except that it didn't help either.

By 3:30 a.m. I was googling whether or not this was an emergency room worthy visit. I decided it was not when I looked at my insurance card and saw that I would be liable for most all of the costs incurred. I figured I had made it this many hours, surely I could make it until Urgent Care opened up. And by George, I did.

Only to get an incredibly asshole doctor. I can count how many times I've been to a doctor in the last six years on one hand. I wait until I literally cannot handle it any longer because I hate thinking I am wasting some one's time or that I could just treat myself and save the cost and again, someone else's time. I had to have Matt drive me because I could barely get into the car, I couldn't buckle my own seat belt and I couldn't even turn my body so I clearly was not fit to drive.

When we finally see the doctor, he starts pushing on my side and that prompts me to scream and cry, both of which I do not do at doctor's offices. Not even during the delivery of my children did I scream out like that or cry. But it was brutal. The doctor sighs and says to me, "Don't you think maybe you're being a bit of a baby?" No lie, that's what he said.

He sends me for an x-ray which confirms I didn't break a rib (YAY!!!) but I did tear the cartilage that essentially connects your ribs to your sternum. He's going on about 6-8 weeks recovery, no exercise, no heavy lifting, obviously nothing vigorous to make that cartilage angry, etc. For pain? I get Advil. I tell him flat out Advil isn't going to do it and that I don't feel comfortable taking ibuprofen every 6 hours every day for pain management until this lets up. He then gives me Prilosec so that I don't develop an ulcer with the ibuprofen.

Then he starts saying things like, "I do my own unofficial studies, no woman likes to take Aleve", or "You've got a bit of a low pain threshold, don't you?", "I bet you had an epidural with your children. I can just tell.", etc. Complete asshole. So then I ask what does he recommend for sleep? Because I got none the night before and at this point, I can't even lay down without pain in my side. He gives me a muscle relaxer which I knew wouldn't work. And it didn't, I didn't even feel drowsy.

By the time we left there, I basically didn't feel like I got my money's worth for treatment. Even Matt said, "Is it just me, or did he basically treat you like a pill popper??". And it's true. I felt like I was basically told to stop being a baby and just take the Advil, never mind the fact that when you do take it your stomach screams and you cramp for days afterwards.

For good measure, I called my doctor's office today to let them know I was in Urgent Care so that they could update my file. And again, their response was, "What difference does it make??". Um, I don't know- so you have a record of an ailment? So then I ask if I could get transferred to the appointment desk because I would like to talk to my doctor about my high blood pressure (consistently hanging around 146/91) and their response? "Well, that's not a priority visit so you're looking at a few months out. But if you have chest pains or have alarming symptoms, go to the emergency room."

Now, is it just me or is it just the medical field giving up on life? Does nobody even give a fuck anymore? Good grief.

I need to find a new doctor, clearly, but now people tell me not to because then I really will look like those sketchy doctor hopping stay at home mom's that are pill poppers and stuff. *sigh*

In other news, I have my appointment with an ENT specialist on the 12th to have them look at the sinus cyst situation. Olivia's orthodontic consultation is scheduled for this month so we can get a first opinion on what to do with her mouth. And the first of all of the bills have come in and we're almost at $600 with three more yet to come in.

Oh goodie.

Light it up. And wear a tutu for good measure.

Don't worry lambies, I'm still here. Things aren't totally in the shit hole over here. I've been trying to keep going with my normal everyday life, as fucked up as it sometimes can be, because it's all I've really got. So on Saturday I ran the Neon Run with my fellow dance mom and friend, Andrea.

And let me just say, we were the hottest Doodlebops there.

 The challenge was to be illuminated because obviously it's a Neon Run, at night, on the lake walk. I decided that I would wear the glow things they gave us AND I would spend $20 on a Fila shirt that was supposed to glow in the dark. I laid that bitch in the sunlight ALL DAY and it did not glow. Do I look like I have illuminated boobs? No. No I don't because Fila are a bunch of dirty liars.

I borrowed my sister in law's bright pink socks, wore my neon laced running shoes, borrowed a giant purple and blue tutu from Connie and then snagged a blue wig from Andrea. Which didn't work super well with my ponytail but who cares. The fact you can see my actual hair adds to the whole "I'm a mess who can't dress herself" theme.

 And then we walked it. We knew we weren't going to win any prizes for being the fastest, but who cares. We looked like weirdos and we got to chat the entire time which is really great and it was nice to do something that didn't let me sit at home and worry.

 We only saw one official homeless person, no muggers, and no abductions happened. Though towards the end that path was pretty dark so I was worried but it ended up being the turn around point. We kept getting compliments on our outfit so we decided to stick around for the prizes, which best costume was one of them. Know who beat us?

A couple of skinny bitches with leopard print leggings and lace neon leotards.

Next year? Oh next year it is ON.

Here is a shot that the owners of Canal Park Brewery took of Andrea and I with some other random people who did the 5K as well. You see how we stood out? Because we're awesome. I'm definitely doing it next year and I think next year we will have more notice so we'll have a bigger group of ladies. It was a ton of fun, though!

Oh yes, so I got home around 1am and then had to get up at 7 am to get ready for another 5K. Which turned out to be a terrible idea. Back to back 5K's when you aren't a good runner, have no stamina for a 5K, and have almost no sleep and are slightly dehydrated?

Poor choice.

I wanted to do it because it was literally a block from my house, it was the first annual, and it was a block party all raising money to feed the hungry in our town. I mean, even if I died- my $15 went to a good cause and as a bonus, maybe my organs could have been donated.

 Matt and the kids came down with me and they were going to wait for me to finish. Honestly, I had been averaging about 40 minutes for 3.1 miles and that was straight walking, so I thought for sure that's what I'd be coming in at.

 And I started strong. I think I ran for the first full mile and felt alright. But then I started going slower, I started cramping up, my knee hurt, then my hip started popping in and out and I had to walk. Then I thought, no big deal. I'll walk for a bit and then run a little bit- if I just do a combination, I'll be fine. But every time I ran it hurt and I felt like I wanted to cheat and turn around. Then I thought, maybe I'll just call Matt to come freaking get me because this sucks and holy crap, but 1.5 miles I was so tired. Like I had expended everything I had. By the time we hit that half way mark I was dead last and over it. Like, legit over it.

But then the guy at the turn around was so damn optimistic, so I figured screw it. I'm just walking this bitch. By mile 2 I really hated it and wanted to go home. Out of nowhere I got so overwhelmed about my mom, and my stress level in general, fed up with being chunky, and I was overly warm, so I started to cry. And there was turn around guy who clearly was waiting for me to hurry so he could pick up the barricades. But he kept telling me he'd follow me and that all I had to do was finish. Poor guy probably thought I was nuts.

By the time I turned and was on the last half mile I was just so mad at myself for sucking so bad and to be honest, I just wanted to shower and go to bed.

 Then my kids started running towards me on the sidewalk. And I thought dammit. I can't give up right in front of my kids. They don't care I'm chunky, or slow, or nonathletic, or dead freaking last. They are just happy to see me and that I'm actually in a race.

 So we finished together.

But most importantly? I finished. I was sweaty, sore, and tired. I was embarrassed to be last but more proud that I finished when I thought about giving it up. And this is the first, and probably only time, I'll ever repeat a Pinterest weightloss mantra because they are crap. Even though I was dead last, I did more than the fat asses who slept in that day.

One step away from hypothermia.

Well folks, 2011 is continuing to be a horrible year. 2011 is nothing if not consistent and last night it proved that YET AGAIN it has something against me.

Let me set the scene for you. It's approximately 8pm.. the kids are in bed (Jackson is sleeping, Olivia is not), Matt and I are on the couch. I feel chilly so I put a sweatshirt on top of my long sleeved, double layer shirt and put my slippers in addition to my thick socks. Matt puts more clothes on, and we conserve body heat on the couch with two blankets. At about 8:45, Matt asks, "Is it just me or is it cold in here?" as we both sit there shivering like fashionable homeless people. I agree so I toddle off to the thermostat. I don't go over there enough to see what the temp was, but I say, "it's set for 70". Matt replies with, "There is not a fucking chance it's 70 in here."

So I go back over to actually see what the temp is. Well... it was 53 degrees. Awesome. While shivering on the couch we hear the furnace turn on and it's just a noise you hear in the background and don't give it much thought. Unless you're freezing and hear the noise.

So Matt goes to investigate. It seems our furnace, an approximately 7 year old generic piece of shit meant for southern states and not the rigorous use of northern states, decides it's kind of over working. Like, it just feels like it needs a break. So it just refuses to blow. (Which I can understand. I'm not a fan of blowing either but sometimes you just have to take one for the team, ya know?) The furnace knows to turn on, the flame ignites... but then nothing starts blowing.

So there's Matt, sitting next to the litter box on a little kid's step stool in the cubby of our laundry room trying to read the furnace manual and figure out what the eff is going on. Or not going on as it were.

He is like 60% sure it's the flame sensor. The thing that tells the furnace "Hey- I've got a flame- blow me". The 40% chance we're REALLY hoping it's not is that the entire thing is malfunctioned. Like...requiring a new one. A new furnace is a couple thousand dollars. To install said furnace puts us up around $3,500. If we're lucky. BUT the kicker... is the venting.

You see.. when we bought the house Matt thought the vents looked whack. What you don't see in this picture that is to the left, is that the vents are a giant mash up. So, whoever installed it (probably the dickweasel who had the house before us) just put it in, half assed the vents, and called it a day. Which explains why the kids' bedrooms have no heat (seriously- they have NONE. I have to heat their rooms up with a space heater and then turn it off at bedtime), why the bathroom has heat and is hotter than the 3rd ring of Hell, and why there are heat vents under windows in our living room. Oh, and one in the middle of the floor in the kitchen. Basically- it was done all wrong.... which is why we're always cold anyways.

AND... it's why we can't get on what is called "secure heat" here. You see, secure heat is a fun feature that you pay like $20 a month for on your utility bill. So let's say, oh.. that your furnace decides to stop working.. you call and they come to fix it. For free. That's right- it's like furnace insurance. But to get on that, your furnace and venting needs to be code. Which ours isn't. And we just don't have that kind of money laying around.

Matt tinkered with it enough to get it to kick on, but he's very adamant that it's a temporary fix and that if we make it another month like that it'll be a miracle.

So. Let's cross our fingers, toes, and dick/balls and hope it's the flame sensor. Which we have to order because tee-dah... nobody carries that part around here. And let's hope that Mr. Furnace can work a little bit until NEXT Friday. Otherwise we might all die of hypothermia.

So yeah. But fun fact- it's really bizarre to wake up seeing your breath. In your bedroom. It's like camping..but indoors. It's kind of weird.

Anyways. So that's my plight this coming weekend.

Tomorrow is my Dear Sara post... and I need a few more questions. So email them to: sarastrand9438(AT)hotmail(DOT)com.

Also, starting Monday I'm starting a weight loss challenge. So eat like a fat whore this weekend bitches because I want you to get on board with this shiz. The hope is that I shame you enough to not want to be a fat ass. Sound good? No? Good. It's not supposed to be fun. Losing weight is not fun. I don't care what Jillian Michaels tells you- you are not going to like it and you will feel like dying and eating a bunch of Taco Bell. Even if they are using faux-cow meat. Whatever. So just get on board. Details coming Monday. :)

What "No Fear" Really Means

I have finally done the one thing I have always wanted to do. For YEARS I've watched people skydive over my parent's house and we used to think they had lost their fucking minds. But today? I jumped.

And obviously survived.

My cousin Rhonda and I waiting to suit up.

I'm not going to lie- I was pretty nervous. I've gone para sailing, which is not anywhere close to this, and I don't have a fear of heights. Actually- I don't know what I really fear aside from bugs and animals. And pedophiles. And Ke$ha. And Mormons. And Catholic Priests. But other than that- I'm not really scared of anything.

We had a "lesson" which basically consisted of us laying on our stomachs and pretending. Which, guess what? Is nothing like it is when you're flying through the air. SHOCKER. We watch a video that reinstates all of the paperwork we had to sign basically saying we could get seriously injured and/or killed but hey--- neither we nor our heirs can sue because we know that going in. Yeah- that kind of scares people going in.

We get to watch a group jump before us so that was good. It was good to see how they actually land close up because I've never seen that and I like to know fully what I'm about to do BEFORE I do it. Then we're told that we can't go up in the plane together. We were going to jump tandem with an instructor/professional but there was only one on hand that day, so yeah. I decided that I would go first because I know that if I didn't- there was a good chance I would pussy out. So I was going to go first and Rhonda would watch me not die, and then she would go. So I got all suited up.

And I felt like Amelia Earhart- no joke. I pretty much felt like pissing my pants. Thankfully, I peed and shit before I got there and I had no food all day so I was hoping I was pretty well cleaned out. But then my plan was to wear a pad, just in case, but guess what? I forgot that. Whoopsy.

So we (me and my tandem instructor guy, Dean) get into a very tiny plane with two other jumpers (solo) and the pilot. To say that I was crammed into a very small space is an understatement. I could barely breathe. We had to climb up to 11,500 feet altitude and I wish I could have taken pictures of what the ground looked like. It was absolutely amazing. Everything looks so tiny and insignificant.

And at some point, I got harnessed to Dean and that's when I thought I was going to lose it- but it's not like I had a choice. Like the only way you are going to get to the ground is to jump out of the damn plane. So all of a sudden Dean's saying "waddle waddle" which means he's getting me to the door and I hear him telling me to put my foot on the ledge....which is outside of the plane. I'm freaking out and before I could even protest, dude has thrown me out. Like we do the tumble dive out of the plane and I had to close my eyes. I have no idea what the initial 10 seconds looked like because I thought I was going to puke, my eyes were closed, my face was freezing and I had to struggle to breathe. When I finally did open my eyes it was so fucking awesome to basically feel like you are falling to your death. We did a free fall for about 30-40 seconds at 120 mph before the parachute goes out, and then we float. It is such a peaceful feeling. It looks fast when you are on the ground but it feels like forever. I think in total I was in the sky for about 7 minutes.

So I'm the little white parachute dot in the bottom left of the picture:

And here's me when I'm a little bit closer to the ground.

And the landing was a lot easier than I thought. I had visions that I would just fall on my ass. But I didn't- I landed on my feet and walked it out.

 And here's me when I walked back towards my mom, Matt, my kids, and Rhonda:

Seriously- it's something I never thought I'd have the guts to actually do it. I'm glad I did it, I'm glad I survived it, I'm not happy about my ears still being so plugged that I can't hear anything. It was such an amazing experience- I would recommend anyone to do it. Seriously- it wasn't NEARLY as bad as everyone hyped it to be. The initial 10 seconds are the worst because you feel like you are going to vomit and like you are plunging to your death. But it's weird because as I was in the plane I kept thinking about that. Like, what if I did die? Would I be ok with that? And I think I would be. I would be alright with that. Obviously I would like to do more in my life but if I end up dying doing something I've always wanted to do....then I can't think of a better way to go.