I’ve started… so I’ll finish
This week Little Man (the baby formally known as Peanut) is two months old. As he woke up at 4am for a feed on Tuesday I heard the whoosing sound of time passing us by. How can it be eight weeks already? How could I be powering walking our little bundle along to the doctors for his first vaccinations when it seems like yesterday that he was snuggling into my chest in the hospital just minutes after he was ? On the plus side, those eight weeks passing mean that I can start exercising again. I’m already feeling under pressure to lose my post-preggy paunch. Perhaps it’s my ago (forty on Sunday y’all *gasp*) or the lack of a full night’s sleep for SO long, but my belly feels that much bigger this time around. And the weight seems to have formed such a close and loving relationship with my body that they’ll never divorce and go their separate ways. I suppose in days gone by I’d have been considered voluptuous. These days I’m just fat.
‘But you’ve only just had a baby!’ friends tell me ‘Give it time!’ and ‘You’re still breastfeeding after all.’ They’re right of course. And I’d love to love my tummy, really I would. I know why it’s there and I’m grateful for the wonderful job it did to bring our miraculous baby boy into this world. But I still want it gone. The belly that I celebrated and everyone coo-ed over just eight weeks ago is now a weight around my neck (or rather my waist) and a cause of raised eyebrows and even the odd ‘when’s the baby due?’ type comment from strangers (case in point the 28 year old pizza waitress last weekend who meant no harm when she pointed out ‘but you still have a belly?!’ as if it might have somehow slipped my attention). It’s bad enough that Curly Girl points to my middle and asks me if there’s another baby brother coming soon.
And so the New Year brings one of my resolutions – to lose two stone and regain the level of fitness I had before I found out last February that we were, by some strange and wondrous trick of nature, pregnant again. So that production at the twin milk factories isn’t disrupted I’m starting slowly – cutting down my portion sizes which have crept up to OH size and beyond, basic core strengthening exercises (head lifts, box press ups, leg lowers and bum lifts) and leaving my car at pre-school after dropping Curly Girl off so that I can pram-push-and-power-walk the 15 minutes into the village and back every day. I started on Monday and already I feel better psychologically for doing some exercise.
I just need to finish what I’m beginning and stick to my guns.
At work I was always a completer finisher. Every Myers-Briggs test I did said the same thing – this lady will finish the job, you can rely on her. She may not be the most innovative of creative tool in the box (err steady on…) but when there’s a deadline looming you’ll want her on your team.
Fast forward two children and I wonder what messers Myers and Briggs would make of me now. The house is littered with started, half-done and almost-finished jobs. Curly Girl’s thank you letters lie on the kitchen table; one written, envelope un-addressed; unfolded washing languishes in the clothes basket; used dishes glare at me from the sink. And oh sure, I have ideas for posts, even manage to scribble them down from time to time, even a paragraph or two but can I get them into the laptop? Nope.
And ditto calling back the friends who’ve phoned me, checking out my online baskets, tidying up the toys which have taken up residence in all corners of the house, taking down the (now unlucky) Christmas tree, applying for Curly Girl’s school place and generally crossing off my various to do list tasks.
Am I being too hard on myself? Probably. But if I won’t, then who will? This is bloggy boot camp people and tough love reigns in this house. At least until I get back to my old self.
Are you making New Year resolutions? How are you going to make sure you stick to them?