Nosy neighbors

For the most part, Mark and I feel pretty fortunate to have "normal" neighbors. On one side. The other neighbors- the ones with the Christmas lights up year round- are another story. They are nice enough, if not a bit socially awkward. They wave when we see them out, they haven't had any crazy all night parties in the past three years, and a google search of their names doesn't produce anything suspicious. (Assuming I am spelling them correctly...) But they could stand to mind their own business a bit more. I have heard on more than one occasion "your baby sure cries a lot" and "we can hear Peyton crying pretty often". So I guess it should come as no surprise when they admit to hearing everything else that goes on behind our closed doors. (No, not that.) Mark and I like to make up our own songs for Sweet P. One day she will know all the right words and correct us when we sing them wrong, but for now, we just pick a tune and add our own lyrics. 

"Change your diaper. Clean your butt. You gave mommy saggy boobs and a squishy gut." 

"Reading. Reading. Reading makes you smart. Eating. Eating. Eating make you fart."
"Hush little baby, don't make a peep. Mommy seriously needs one damn minute of sleep."

I never said they were Grammy worthy- just fun freestyles! 

Anyhow, the other day our neighbor started with the usual "Peyton still seems to cry a lot" followed by "that song you were singing to her last night was so funny!" Ummm...what? I can say with 110% certainty that if I heard one of them tell the other that they thought I should be on the cover of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition 2014, I still wouldn't submit my photos. Because then I would have to admit to being nosy. And I would get too famous to shop at Walmart in my sweatpants. 

But now that I know they are listening, I will at least try to sing on key. And omit anything pertaining to them. Oh, and close the windows. 

Sprung a leak

After watching an episode of The Doctors I have changed up my workout routine. (On a side note, I do not make a habit of watching that show. It is a widely know fact that Emergency Room nurses are always hotter than the docs they roll with. Dr. Travis Stork is taking that fact and turning it upside down and stomping all over it. Not okay.) Anyhow, an equally attractive female costar of his mentioned that the best way to keep a healthy vagina is to skip out on underwear while exercising. She mentioned that it would be ok to wear a cotton brief, but then I would have a panty line and even Lulu Lemon can't make that look good. So I left the undies at home and headed out to Airobics. Bad idea. It seems the only thing keeping a small dribble of urine from reaching your pants while doing acrobatics on a trampoline is your underwear. It wasn't until we were fifteen minutes into class that I realized that small strip of fabric plays a more vital role than I once thought. Each jump, and worse yet, each landing, and I could tell I had made a mistake. In fact, I could FEEL I had made a mistake. Even using the bathroom right before and once during class can't fix the fact that I am three months out from a grueling birth.  Apparently I left my once iron clad bladder in the delivery room, and it took my favorite childish pastime to remind me that.  Thank goodness I was wearing black pants. 
*thinks to self* "I just hope we don't have to get into the splits anytime today."
*instructor* "ok, go ahead and get into a split position."
*fuck*
And did I mention this is the one and only time there has ever been someone else in the class? Yes. Today we were privileged to have a FULL class of 15.

TMI? Some of you reading this may be questioning my propensity to over share. But I have always been an open book and if anything, having a baby made me MORE willing to lay it all out there. I have NO problem letting the blogging world know that  sometimes I forget a breast pad and find myself in an impromptu wet t-shirt contest. (You always win when you run unopposed.) I can't remember the last time I haven't had a spit up stain on my otherwise trendy outfit. And occasionally during a jumping jack on a trampoline I leak urine. I used to be able to drink two liters of water during a 10 hour shift without stopping for a bathroom break. Not anymore. I willingly traded out my Fort Knox of a bladder for my new, improved, super sized heart. 

Zzzzz

By now I've been given plenty of advice (solicited and otherwise) on how to get my Sweet P to sleep. I've complied all that advice into my own list that I lovingly referred to as the Triple B List:
Bath
Book
Breast
But after several weeks (13 weeks and 5 days, in fact) of trying the Triple B List, I found something to be missing. So I added one more "B" to bring our grand total to four. Behold, the Quadruple B List:
Bath
Book
Breast
BULLSHIT

I love my kid. She is getting to be so animated and fun. Her toothless grins and drooly mouth melt my heart. That is, when she is happy enough to show off a smile. The girl will not sleep anywhere but in my arms amd when she is overly tired I swear my precious little bundle gets swapped out with a wildebeest who had his prey snatched up by a neighboring herd of water buffalo. That shit ain't no joke when it could be weeks before he happens upon another wounded zebra to take down for dinner. Wait. Where were we? Oh yes- sleep. My girl likes her sleep one way and one way only. In her mamas arms. And I would be lying if I didn't say that at night I love her cozy body snuggled up against my chest. But as sweet as it is, during afternoon naps a sleeping baby in moms arms does not get a house vacuumed and dinner on the table. And it certainly does not get 100 mason jars embellished for a September wedding. So I bust out the B's to see where it leads me...

Bath: the best part of the day as far as she is concerned! She splashes and laughs and usually will do 4-6 laps (backstroke or butterfly, depending on her mood) before she is ready to get out. And when she is out, she is ready to party. Not even a lavender massage will dampen her post-shower spirits. Clearly, who gets all clean and pretty only to go to bed?

Book: she may be too young to sit through storytime just yet (or could it be she is too intellectual to be reading such childish stories?), but one sentence into even the shortest of all books and she is throwing a fit to move on to the next activity. 

Breast: this girl loves to nurse. She also loves to poop almost immediately after nursing. She HATES to have her diaper changed. The point being that nursing does not lead to sweet slumber in this house. 

BULLSHIT: babies will sleep when they are damn well ready. And I suggest you have a pillow handy for when in happens because you may just be able to get in a wink of shuteye before little one is rearing to go again. That is if you haven't already fallen asleep while reading this post. 

This is going to hurt

There are a few things I know about Tuesday. 

1- it comes right after Monday

2- immediately before Wednesday

3- aerobics classes are NEVER with Drill Sargeant (D.S)

So you can imagine my surprise when I arrived to class on my "easy" day to find D.S. waiting for me. And only me. This was going to be one hour of direct attention from my teenage torturer. No skipping a push-up or a lap today. He would catch me and punish me if I even THOUGHT about fibbing.

 "I swear I was on #88. Are you sure I have only done 12?!"

"Get down and give me 20. Now!"

Besides having my ass handed to me, I also got an opportunity to see a softer, more human side to D.S. He told me after high school he had plans to become an RN! He told me he hoped to go to Saint Mary's! Seriously, we are like two peas in a pod! (You know when one pea clearly zaps all the size and strength from the second pea- leaving one robust and delicious and the other shriveled and ridiculous looking. We are kinda like that type of pod.) He informed me that the only thing keeping him from being a Gael is the cost. He opened up to share with me and I realized we have some big things in common. And then...then it was my turn to talk and I came up with this: "well you can get scholarships and you're a male minority so that helps." *crickets* Opps. I think the rigorous workout had my brain oxygen deprived.

 "Umm, I hope I didn't offend you. I just meant that there are more scholarships available to" (he interrupts)

 "to my people?" 

Damn. There is no way out of this one. He chuckled and told me "nah, I get it. You're just looking out for me. Now let's get back to work. Nobody likes flabby thighs." 

Burn. 

"Well, now we are even because you just called me flabby." 

"Nope. You called me a minority. I have a few more jabs until we are even." Let the ridicule continue...

5 minutes later:

"I think I am getting a blister on my foot so I may not be able to do some of the exercises as well."

"Hard to believe it could get any worse."

5 minutes later:

"Time for crunches. Do twenty. Actually, how old are you?"

"28."

"Whoa, seriously? I didn't think you were that old."

Ok, surely NOW we are even!

5 minutes later:

"This next exercise will work on your 'spare tire'."

Just as I expected when I saw Drill Sargent on this dreadful Tuesday, class was long. But I had no plans on it being long AND humiliating. I can only hope that I pissed him off enough to not show up on Thursday. 

Feeling a little bit jumpy...

As a kid, jumping on a trampoline offers an escape from reality. While on that shiny, magical, bouncy black surface you are given a glimpse into a world where you can fly, flip and laugh until your sides hurt.

As an adult, it will make your sides hurt all right. Along with your thighs, arms, ass, fingernails, hair, pride...The same equipment that brought such joy to my childhood has a way of making this 12 week post partum mama face the very harsh reality that this body ain't what it used to be. (That is saying a lot, as it didn't start off overly strong or athletic.) 28 is the new...60? Sure feels that way.

In an attempt to get into shape for wedding season- my own and a handful of others- I decided to adopt a new workout routine. So I sat down at the computer, carb loaded snack in hand, and spent several weeks researching my various options. Pilates? too expensive. Yoga? too trendy. Running? hahahahah...have we met?! Of course I could utilize the gym that I pay yearly membership fees towards. But its close proximity to the mall is too tempting. Plus I have a 0.00241% chance of running into "Logan*", so why risk it? So I signed my ass up for trampoline aerobics! And to tell the truth, it is kinda fun. Really tough. But kinda fun.

My first class I showed up early. Really early. In fact. the website suggested arriving 15 minutes early "as spots fill up fast" so I came 20 minutes early. You don't get to be teachers pet by showing up late and sitting in the back of class. I prepared for class by wearing my two tightest fitting sports bras- together- to offer a shred of support to my newly ample chest. I also wanted adequate time to familiarize myself with the trampoline park- a huge warehouse with a giant arcade, wall-to-wall trampolines, and a foam pit. When I arrived to class to check in they informed me that in three years of hosting classes, they have never had a full class. In fact, a typical class size is two-three people. The instructor being one of them. Score! I just landed myself an hour with a personal trainer for $7! 

The first class went well. The instructor, Giggly Girl, was a lively, petite mother of a young child and she completely understood if I took frequent breaks or needed to modify the exercises to fit my tolerance level. I was sweating like an addict going through withdrawals after just several minutes there. And after 15 minutes in my breathing mirrored that of a chronic smoker taking the stairs because the escalator is being serviced. But I pushed through the aches and pains and made it through 30 minutes of rigorous exercise. Problem is, the class is an hour. 

 Good thing I have a newborn to blame shit on. "Oh damn, I would stay but my baby needs me. Right. This. Second. If I stay a minute longer I risk her having abandonment issues for the rest of her life." If you ask me, 30 minutes of exercise for my first attempt post-baby ain't half bad. But if you ask Drill-Sergeant, the instructor on day 2 of class, 30 minutes is pitiful, embarrassing, and makes me a sorry excuse for a human being. Shit just got real. Unlike my first instructor, Drill-Sergeant lives and breathes fitness. He is involved in track, football and soccer. He is a 16 year old high school boy who owns me for an hour every Thursday. He scares me. I told him I would try my best to make it the entire hour. He told me I would make it. 

"Thank you- that is my hope." 

"No, you WILL make it. Nobody does a half a class with me." 

"Yeah, but I just had a baby." 

"I  have two fractured vertebrae and just pulled my hamstring." 

Shit. You win, Drill-Sergeant. Where is Giggly Girl? I miss her. 

The truth is class was infinitely harder on day two but I felt more rewarded and invigorated when I left my beat down by The Sarge. Could it be that I actually like to workout? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I think it comes down to one thing: if I am going to leave my Sweet P for anything, even just one minute, I want it to be worth my while. And I know that Drill-Sergeant is committed to making me feel that every Thursday I have done something worthwhile. AKA painful and exhausting. 

It is a damn good thing tomorrow is a Tuesday. 

*real name? Wolverine. Don't ask.

Naptime be damned

It is very likely that I will soon regret saying this, but today I boldly declare that I am not a fan of naptime. Last week I would have given anything, ANYTHING, for P to so much as close her eyes briefly enough to blink. And it is possible that tomorrow I will find myself praying for at least 20 minutes of naptime for her and respite for me. But on this particular day we had so much fun by 11 am that I was sad to see her eyes get heavy and her pulling a blanket towards her face- her precious tell that a nap is in order. Today she woke up smiling, played for the first time on her kick mat piano and let out a joyful squeal when the music came on, found herself in the mirror and gave herself a huge grin, and had a blast splashing around in her bathtub. All of our fun playtime made for a sleepy girl. Rest up, Sweet P. When you wake up it will be time to make new memories.