No More Beating My Brain

This dang blog (or lack there of) has taunted me for the past two months.

It calls to me in the middle of the night when I'm up for a feeding—which thankfully are few and far between now that my man is eight weeks plus.

It shakes me when a cogent—and probably snarky—thought drops into my mind that would, no doubt, make a fabulous posting.

And now, two months post baby, where do I start? So much to tell. So little time.

So today whilst bobbing up and down the elliptical machine for a sacred and almost stolen-seeming 3o minutes of bliss, I said fuck it.

Yeah. I said it.

I also decided not to censor the curse words because who really says freak it or thinks in %#*?

We think in fucks and shits and mother fuckers and, well, that's it for me.

Ass and it's add-ons are not a part of my lexicon. Ass is not so much fun.

Oh, and if you're wondering about dang versus damn per the first line, I just think it's funny in a Jed Clampett kind-of-way.

(Pause to look up spelling of Clampett...and I'm back.)

So, very simply put in the immortal words of my good friend Iggy Pop: No more beatin' my brain.

Although mine isn't with liquor and drugs (though somehow I kinda wish it were); it's with bad feelings about not blogging.

And all this brings me to my latest and greatest revelation on how to do the things I wish I could do (like blog, not eat sugar, be more grateful) but just don't get one gosh darn (as said with irony) minute to do them.

Introducing:

Interview Mamazine (tm)
A Daily Q & A, Featuring and Fetishizing Me


Wake up time: 7:06 am

First thought: You slept late. Shit!

Baby was: Nestled into me, still there from a 5:30 breastfeeding.

This is: Not so great. Falling asleep with baby in the bed is dangerous—even though I did have a good hold on him.

Daughter was: Sleeping on the diagonal in our bed.

This is: Per usual. She makes our California king feels like a twin. I invoked the Sleep Fairy last week after Scarlett managed to not get up in the middle of the night and come into our bed. You know the Sleep Fairy, right? She gives kids gifts for sleeping the whole night in their own beds. She doesn't come into the house though (because my daughter is leery of strangers—even if they're fairies—in the house). You meet up with her when you're doing your errands and you call her on her cell phone. And if yours asks: she does indeed have a mommy and a daddy. She is very tiny. She can fit into the palm of your hand. Ooops. But she can carry the presents because she's very strong. She has seven siblings though you can only remember three of their names: John, Jane and Jack. She has purple and pink wings with sparkles. She is very nice.

Emails to check: 84 (just one of which was spam)

Children to feed: 1 baby. I am partially breastfeeding and mostly (now) bottle feeding. It works for me and has enabled me to feel very empowered. So suck it crazy breastfeeding meanies who try to pressure you into only breastfeeding. Moms, do the research, get educated and then do what's best for you. If you're not feeling good, strong and empowered in your decisions, your baby will feel it.

First saving the world thought: I am going to be a better recycler. Read this bonkersness: http://www.comcast.net/articles/news-science/20080623/SCI.Warming.Scientist/

Checked my town's recently delivered newsletter that details what gets recycled and how:
Commingle:
Aluminum (soda and beer cans)
Bimetal (soup, vegs and dog food cans)
Glass
Plastic

Newspapers should be bound in a twine.
Junk mail and mixed papers can be bound by twine or placed in brown
paper bags marked junk mail.
Note: You should shred your junk mail though, for your own protection.


First crazy thought: I will die of skin cancer. As said to myself as I opened the sun roof. Don't worry, I countered with: Shut up! Are you serious? Is this what you are thinking? Why don't you just say you'll die from a-a-a-a car accident. WHAT? What are you thinking? Stop! You're not going to die from either of those things and why are you letting yourself have these thoughts. Ego go away; light come in. (This is my mantra that slays the crazies.) Order was restored.

Arrived at gym: 8:10

Workout was: Super duper, man! 30 minutes on the elliptical.

Calories burned: 310

Heart rate max: 150

Today's weight: 170 (for reals—I cannot believe I just admitted it in print or type or whatever)

Baby weight still hanging on: 10 pounds

Weight still on from my first pregnancy: 20 pounds

Reason: A huge, life altering, earth shattering paradigm shift—oh, and lots of pizza, cheese, cookies and wine.

Weight still on from moving from Manhattan to NJ: 15

Reason: Moving to the suburbs is hella scary, folks.

Total weight to lose: 45 pounds

Clothes in my closet fit a girl who is: 45 pounds lighter. Jesus.

Days a week I am working out as of two weeks ago: 5

Second bananas thought: Ed McMahon looks so old and feeble. He is crying behind that smile. He is old. He is sad. I should send him money. To which I said: Don't pity people. Who are you to pity him? And anyway, send some money to yourself, sister. Seriously.

Feeling: Awesome. God love endorphins.

Breakfast: Organic high fiber cereal, skim milk, coffee, aka, 2 Weight Watchers points.
Oh, I am doing Weight Watchers. It rules.

Today's childcare is brought to you by: My mom who scoops up my daughter for a day at the pool and the park.

Work begins at: 9:30

To be continued...

Phew! 11 hours later almost to the minute.

The official Q & A will begin tomorrow. Think: part slam book, part free association. I think it's going to be a helpful tool to force me to check in with myself.

So, no more stressing over wanting to blog but not having the time. Check!

And no more beating my brain. Check!

Well, for now, anyway.