How my closet got her groove back

…She might have a name, but it’s certainly not Stella; that was just the most clever play on words I could come up with.

Like I’ve mentioned before, I’m slowly pushing myself into putting effort back into my appearance. That isn’t always easy with a 5 month old, or a complete lack of self-confidence. Luckily, I don’t have to continue to sacrifice comfort in the name of vanity. Shop Pink Blush never disappoints in their ability to make trendy pregnancy clothing. I’m still kicking myself for not investing in one of their adorable maternity robes. I guess it’s never too late, right?

 

(The second photo threw in because there is no way I ever take myself seriously, especially when I’m doing an impromptu photo shoot inside my open garage for my neighbors to be entertained by. Oh, and it’s not fall if a scarecrow isn’t photo-bombing you. It’s a thing, look it up.)

Every one of their items are butter soft, and cleans nicely with little to no effort involved. I don’t have to go through the ringer, or throw them in a special wash cycle after the baby spits up on them for the umpteenth time. My PinkBlush shirts have now made it through a few average cycles, and have somehow come out even better than before.

Go now, don’t waste any more time like I did; grab a few staple items to add to your collection. Whether it’s a baby shower dress, or just a few pair of leggings – you won’t regret it.

ShopPinkBlush is waiting!

Postpartum lifestyle connoisseur

…that mouthful of a subject line sounded real impressive, didn’t it. Well, now that you’re here:

^ That is my current status in a GIF, 4 months PP.

Raise your hand if it was nearly impossible for you to stick to your nutrition goals PRE-child; let alone POST; when the last thing on your mind is meal prep and fixing salads. Most days I’m happy if I can even get to my microwaved chicken nuggets (yes, I buy them for myself) before they go cold.

I am constantly reminding myself that the ‘fad’ diets are not a thing, they have zero credibility when it comes to overall weight loss; and are not permanent fixes. I hate the word ‘diet’ anyway; and after being told over and over again that it’s a lifestyle change, the idea has stuck. It’s just actually implementing that affirmation that I’m struggling with. I would love nothing more than to humble brag that I have the will-power of a kale chip eating saint; but I would be lying, and half-way through my second snickers bar.

I’m just a lazy sack of crap. Honestly. I hate working out, and probably always will. I do not get that ‘high’ that everyone refers to during/after a workout; unless that ‘high’ happens to be a lack of oxygen and an overall feeling of being near death; in which case I am 100% there.

I genuinely praise women that find the time. that actually get up before they have to get ready for work and do the damn thing. Even if it’s just a quickie 20 minutes. To the ladies that meal prep their hearts out every Sunday, I salute you. I really do. I need to be on this level. I just choose not to, and I don’t know why.

I will whine about feeling gross. Feeling bogged down, foggy, tired, and flat-out nasty. Day in and day out. Hell, I’m annoyed at myself for sounding like a broken record with no end in sight. At the end of the day, it’s a vicious cycle. I feel like crap, so I don’t work out. I don’t work out, because I feel like crap. Hand me a cheeseburger, put the kid to bed, glass or two of wine, repeat.

SO. To pull myself out of this funk, I figured I needed to hold myself accountable, even if just for a few days; as a means to get my ass in gear. I’ve made a micro to-do list to work towards this weekend, in hopes that it inspires some of you mama warriors to do the same!

• Exercise for 30 minutes this weekend doing something you love. (walking, running, swimming, yoga, playing tag with your kids, cleaning, whatever gets you moving and makes you winded)
• Cook one (or two, if you’re feeling ambitious) HEALTHY meal(s) for your family, and skip the bowl of ice cream after.
• Prep your families (healthy) breakfast or lunch Sunday afternoon for the following Monday. It doesn’t have to be both meals, but having something ready is better than having nothing.
• Drink more water. Even if it’s just one extra glass.

It doesn’t even need to be food prep or exercise related. Whatever it is that you are struggling to get to and through, cultivate baby steps to get over the hurdle. It doesn’t seem like much; but I did notice that the times I do exercise, or prep even one meal for myself the day before starting a new week, it changed my attitude for the rest of that day.

If you’re anything like me, you build up these high, unattainable, Everest-sized goals that you want so badly, but then get discouraged by when you re-evaluate.  ANYTHING that goes outside of your usual comfort zone, is enough to steer your motivation in the right direction.

Let me know any ideas you may have that you use to better situate a routine for yourself or your families during the week, or what helps you keep on a steady fast track when you feel stuck in a rut. I would love to gain some knowledge.

Also, I’ve been trying to research a few apps that can help organize what I’m wanting to do in terms of short-term goals, and bigger picture ones. Here’s an article that seems to have some good ones. I’m a visual person by nature, so seeing these things laid out sometimes helps me reach them quicker and more consistently.

Here’s to change, and wine!

 

 

I didn’t want a girl, but…

God knew exactly what he was doing when he made me a girl mom.

Shortly before I got pregnant, I can recall on more than one occasion pleading with him to listen to reason. I knew boys. I had been getting to know my nephew for over a year, and had gotten used to the ebb and flow, and overall ‘jest’ of boyhood. I also knew that the term ‘mama’s boy’ was not to be taken lightly. From what I could see, my nephew couldn’t get enough of his mom, and was the sweetest, kindest little soul. I wanted that, because I wasn’t intimidated by its familiarity.

Once I did get pregnant, the reality set in that I now had a 50/50 chance of actually having a girl. What was once just theoretical banter with God, had now become an all too real fear.

Then I found out Charlotte Emilia Recchion was well on her way.

The internal panic set in. ‘What if she didn’t love me?’ I highly disliked my mom. We were never close. ‘What if I ruin her?’ Significant damage had been done by mine, and our relationship had been strained from what I feel like was straight out of the womb. I had so many doubts, and was annoyed at God. The fact of the matter was, I couldn’t do this. I wasn’t meant to be a girl mom. I wanted a boy. My partner wanted a boy. This wasn’t fair. I was not up to the challenge of having to re-write my own manual on this toxic, uncharted territory. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t break the cycle. 

Looking back on it now, I’m able to laugh a little. Of course he gifted me what I didn’t know I needed. God gets me, he knows my heart. There hasn’t been very many moments or situations in my life that I’ve felt uncomfortable in, that he hasn’t challenged me to face head-on. I can honestly say that my strength lies in the fact that he’s never steered me in the wrong direction. I stray, he gently redirects. I push back, he convicts my judgement. I say no, he says ‘I’ll be here when…’ so it only makes sense that he would want me to deconstruct and rebuild the biggest wall in life; raising my own daughter.

Now I couldn’t imagine life without her. I wake up every morning to this gummy, wrinkled-nose grin, and can’t help but swoon. My Charlie is a vocal, sassy, funny little spitfire; and I am so honored that she chose me to be her mom.

That being said, there are at least a few minutes of each day that the anxiety of not doing right by her hits me. God can reiterate time and time again how big his presence is in my life, and I will always question his motives. Trust was never my strong suit. All the mean while, Every time she hits a milestone, or recognizes my face when we lock eyes; there is no denying that the very core of me aches with the need to give this kid everything I am in order to make her existence matter.

I want to show her that kindness and tolerance starts at home. That you can stand strong in your foundation and still love anyone that views the world differently than you. To never settle in complacency with herself, or let those around her bring her down in theirs. That it’s okay to cry at the little things, and at the big things; because her feelings are important. That we won’t always agree, and that there will be a day when she does really feel like she hates me, and will tell me so; but we’ll both know that it couldn’t be further from the truth. I want her to not have to apologize to the world for her every step, and instead stir up revolutions in spite of it. To not stand idly by while others are suffering, talking about what could be done, instead of acting in the middle of the resolve. That no matter how high she sets her own expectations, doing the best she can will always be good enough. I want her to know, love, and rely on God in ways that I never did (and most of the time still don’t) and to get used to her mom being fully engaged in her life; even when she finds it SO annoying; because that will mean I’m doing something right by her, after all.

I will always struggle with the void that comes with not having the typical mother/daughter relationship. I realize that I am one of many; and that’s why it’s even more important for all of us to stick together, and understand that we are not alone. It can be very isolating. I got lucky, because there has never been a lack of nurturing substitutes in my life. As I’ve grown, so has my support system. Still, it doesn’t take away from what’s missing.

As always, I encourage other new mom’s (or ladies in general) that this topic may strike a chord with, to reach out, and share your struggles. Dysfunction isn’t shameful, it’s eye-opening.

 

 

I give my body hell, and it gave me motherhood.

Going through pregnancy and having a baby made me appreciate my pre-mom body like I never thought possible. I spend a good amount of time mourning the me that couldn’t stop whining about her flaws at every skin flab and pimple. That bitch had no idea what she was talking about.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate what my body has done for me. I have so much respect for the work she’s put in, even after the many years of destruction and teenage angst I’ve riddled her with. She definitely doesn’t owe me anything; so gifting me a baby was a pretty solid move on her part.

I’ve also realized she’s given me so many stories to tell. The scars on my legs, to remind me that for whatever reason, everything made them itch, and no Costco sized jar of coconut oil could lessen the urge to scratch. It makes me laugh to think about the looks the nurses gave me in the hospital during my labor, or the snarky comments that they made, trying to imply that I either had a drug problem, or was suffering from a serious mental illness. Really, something just wasn’t agreeing with the sensitivity of my pregnant skin; and it’s since gone away completely.

There’s also the three minuscule stretch marks that I spent an entire 9 months trying to avoid getting; when at the end of the day, I could really care less about. One of them doesn’t even qualify as a true stretch mark; however, I’m too embarrassed to actually admit that it’s a burn mark from trying to curl my hair naked, and not realizing (or being in denial of) my stomach being so big, it had its own gravitational pull. Besides, they’re all close enough together that I can get away with not having to share the naked hair-curling incident, and instead brag about how I’ve earned my tiger stripes.

My poor boobs. I don’t even have a cool story for what happened there. Time, gravity, and the pregnancy Houdini decided to grab some brunch, ban together, and swoop in like a swift ninja to pop the life out of those fun bags before I could enjoy them without needing a bra to leave the house, for fear of tripping over them.

You know what’s also fun? Shower art. Specifically the kind you make with the clumps of hair you start to lose after your body decides to rebel against you postpartum. I was so confident too, getting cocky about the fact that I hadn’t lost any 3 months in. But even just throwing that thought out into the universe was enough to cue the PSYCH! police. I could probably make money with the abstract pieces I’ve put together on my shower walls.

I will say this. The healing process downstairs (sorry grandma, don’t read this part) was not as bad as I thought it’d be. I had imagined my vag looking like a crime scene out of Law & Order, where the hazmat guys come in with the suits and basically everyone in the room is traumatized for life. But from what I’ve been able to tell, things seem relatively unscathed, considering I pushed what felt like a bowling ball covered in cactus needles out of my lady bits.

After all is said and done; you sort of walk around with a newfound respect for how awesome you are. You think about giving birth as something a woman just “does” when the time comes; but you don’t appreciate it for what it’s worth, until you have experienced it first hand. We absolutely do not get enough credit. The intensity, emotion, physical & spiritual battle we go through when we are that deep within ourselves is unlike anything that can be described in words. Thinking back on labor and all it entailed really makes me go “how the actual f*ck did I get through that, I’m kind of a big deal.”

And you are.

So Own the battle wounds, big and small. Embrace the lopsidedness, and poke fun at the awkward bodily functions. It is the result of creating life, and there’s nothing more badass than that.

My journey with Postpartum Anxiety

I am pretty much an open book. I approach life no holds barred, because we connect the most with people by the experiences we choose to share; in hopes that someone else can relate on some level, and find comfort in knowing that they don’t have to go through life feeling isolated.

That being said, It felt important to me to reach out to other new moms about the peaks and pits of living life postpartum. More specifically for me, trying to overcome the emotional aspect(s) of realizing your basic needs and desires will forever come second to this tiny person you created, and are still very much getting to know.

I knew going into my pregnancy that the chances of my experiencing PPD/PPA were pretty high, because I have struggled with anxiety and a bit of depression for as long as I can remember. What I did not fully consider, however, was how the impact of adding another person, hormones, and an overall sense of disarray, would amplify these sensations ten fold. The heaviness of what I was feeling was an entirely different beast that I had no clue how to get a handle on.

I couldn’t tell you the exact moment that I was convinced I was losing my mind, but I can recall the meltdown that it led to.

I had been trying to breastfeed unsuccessfully for over two weeks; she just wouldn’t latch, and screamed every time I put her on my boob. It was stressing her out, it was stressing me out…we just weren’t on the same page and it was pushing me to the brink of insanity. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t my baby want to bond with me? Did I fuck up by giving her formula in the hospital? (the answer is no, because her sugars were low and that is beyond anyone’s control. Subbing formula was the best thing for her, and that’s all there is to it.) I had so many thoughts and feelings of failure as a new mother, shame in my own body, and felt completely defeated by all my well intended delusions of how things should have been. Nothing was giving way to my misery, and her attempts to acclimate to her new surroundings.

During all of this, I was still actively pumping to at least try to compensate. If she wouldn’t latch, I held some comfort in knowing she would at least be getting the nutrients of the breast milk. Luckily, I had a great production, and it was what kept me going for the time being; until the overwhelming sense of dread and panic set in.

I woke up one morning, and just didn’t feel like myself. I had racing thoughts, I was scattered, disoriented, and felt very uneasy. My wonderful fiance had noticed this almost immediately and asked me what was going on. I honestly didn’t know. I shrugged it off and chalked it up to the ‘baby blues’ they tell you to expect for a few days shortly after giving birth.

Fast forward a week, and at this point not only am I having the these racing thoughts and overall feelings of dread, but I am no longer sleeping. Like, at all. If she was beside me in her bassinet, I was anxious and terrified of her waking up or stirring. If she was in the other room with her dad (who at this point was trying to force me into taking naps and resting) I couldn’t stop obsessing about her every whimper, or would get up to tend to her, as if he couldn’t handle it (he could, and most times better than me, in case you were wondering.) I had also somehow absolutely, without a doubt, convinced myself that I was going to die. I won’t go into the nitty-gritty details of how or why; but just know that there wasn’t talking any logic or sense into what I knew would be my imminent death. (I know, dramatic much?)

The night that it came to a head, I had gone through a particularly hard day. Travis had just gone back to work, so it was just me and this tiny person, who I barely knew, and would freak out if I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her in time. I didn’t know that I could get through the day without him, and being cooped up inside just made things so much worse for me. I had way too many thoughts going through my head to just be standing idly by. At this point the only thing keeping me busy was pumping. All day. NUMEROUS times a day. So much so that It was hard to continue to try to get to know and love on my baby girl. I was preoccupied by my obsession to get this ONE thing right, all the meanwhile, it was secretly putting all the more pressure on me to be ‘the perfect mom.’

After what must have been my 9th pump that day; sore nipples, a screaming baby, and not enough production to keep up with the demands of her growth; I was done. With everything. I went into our room and completely lost it. The ugly, drooly sob. I didn’t even know why I was sobbing. I was just exhausted. I couldn’t do it anymore. Travis came in, and I finally just told him about my fears, the anxiety I had been feeling, my disdain for pumping, but the constant guilt I had felt for not continuing to do it, and how I just knew I was failing at being this little girls mom.

After talking me off the ledge, he did the very best thing for me, knowing it was what I needed to hear. He said out loud, so that I could interpret it outside of myself. He told me that it was okay to quit. He reminded me that ‘quitting’ did not mean what I had made it out to; that our baby would thrive because we loved her, and that my fixation on trying to pump or breastfeed had nothing to do with my abilities as her mom. He gave me the permission to forgive myself, and told me I needed to go visit my doctor. So I did.

God bless the nurse that saw me. Seriously. I was a puffy faced mom zombie who was running on no sleep, carrying around my weight in shame, and couldn’t get a word in edgewise between my sobs and wretches. She didn’t even blink before telling me that what I was feeling was 1000000% normal and that I would be okay. I wasn’t in fact dying, and that if she needed to, she would fully check me out and get whatever tests done that I wanted to reassure me. That in itself was enough to steer me back in the direction of sanity. She was a blessing. She made me feel human again. I walked out with my prescription for Zoloft, and a forgotten sense of normalcy.

Looking back on the entire 4+ weeks leading up to my finally deciding to get help, I am glad that we decided to get educated on what all the possibilities were; even if we weren’t sure that they would affect us personally. None of us are exempt from the ravages of having a baby and all that it entails. There is NO SHAME in asking for help, because the people who love you want the beginning chapters of motherhood to be a beautiful, enjoyable time; and this may not be the case for some of us, and that’s completely okay. Don’t be afraid to speak out and share your struggles, you never know who may desperately need to hear it.

If you are looking for resources and don’t know where to start, I have included some links below. Also know that nothing can substitute an actual visit to your doctor, who probably knows you and your situation best.

 

RESOURCES:

PPD Silence Sucks

Postpartum Support – PSI

Postpartum Depression/Anxiety Signs and Symptoms

Postpartum Depression/Anxiety Support Groups in the US