Another Success

During my pregnancy my lower back started really hurting me. I think I even had that sciatic nerve thing where you get the shooting pains down your back and thigh. Since the baby has been born it hasn't gotten any better. Though I no longer feel like I have a cannon in my front, pulling on my back, it still hurts. I feel it the most when I wake up and bend down to pick up the baby. Almost unbearable.

In the past when I've been sore in my back, I've gotten a massage. So I found a local, highly-recommended massage therapist and she worked on my back. It didn't help. Just hurt my wallet.

Next I considered going to a chiropractor. When I discovered how much they cost (and that my insurance didn't cover them), coupled with the fact that I'm not 100% convinced it's a legitimate medical practice, I abandoned the idea.

That left me with two options: go see my primary care physician or try exercising. Since Dr. Crawford is on vacation for another week, I tried Pilates first.

I LOVED IT! I actually doubted I would like Pilates since at my gym it's in the "Mind/Body" category of classes and I'm not into the "Mind/Body" type of thing. I mean the last thing I want to think about is what's going on in my head when I work out. As a new mom, the first thing I will think about is my baby - and then of course, my boobs will start to leak and that's not necessarily good during a workout. But Pilates moved quickly, she didn't turn off the lights and turn on the new age music and no one told me to "find my center." Awesome.

I admittedly had to do some of the modified positions, but we did a whole lotta back stretching. It felt great. The instructor, LaLa, also seemed to focus a bit on me (never again will I pick a spot in front of the instructor) which was embarrassing, but helped me out.

My back is still sore, but the hour flew by and I look forward to the next class.

Doubt?

So my nemesis, my white whale, a.k.a The Scale, has been my friend lately. I have been pleasantly surprised when I've been stepping on him.

And I am having a hard time believing it.

I mean I am not in the "I WANT TO EAT EVERYTHING" mood that I'm usually in when I'm on a diet. Sure, I cut out some things. And I switched to diet soda (hey man, I need caffeine when I have those 4am feedings and I don't do coffee). But the main difference is in my physical activity. I'm back in the gym and my son and I have made a habit of taking walks (my review of the different parks of the East Bay Area is a whole blog topic in itself . . .). So I am a little skeptical that my weight has steadily gone down - I've only made one consistent major change, after all.

So this morning I performed the second test - after the scale - of whether or not I've been successful in Operation Baby Weight. Yes, I tried on my jeans.

THEY FIT!!!!!

Now that is not to be confused with "They were LOOSE" or anything. But they did indeed fit and I am EXCITED.

Someone once told me that when you see progress it is just so encouraging. And that's exactly how I'm feeling today.

The Scale

When I was 16, I was on vacation from school and I chaperoned a field trip with my mom's 6th grade students. I was assigned to a group of 4 girls - they were best friends and I instantly felt a connection to them, as I too had a clique of 4 best friends in 6th grade (actually, I think I've had a clique of 2-4 best friends up through college - I might be a clique-y person). We went to the Exploratorium in SF. On one particular exhibit, you stepped on a scale and the scale showed you your weight on Mars or some other planet (for the record, you weigh much less on the planet). Each of the kids got on, including my 4 girls. The first girl who got on was really small - they were all skinny, but she was the shortest. So naturally she weighed the lightest. I watched, very disturbed, how her 3 best friends weighed themselves after her and each made an excuse for why her weight was higher than the first girl's. I mean they were really embarrassed that they weighed 65 lbs as opposed to the first girl's 60 lbs. Looking back, I probably should've stepped on the scale to maybe downplay the importance of it, but well, I was 16. Not exactly evolved.

A couple years ago, my mom gave me her fancy scale. For the most part it serves as a doorstop in my bathroom, gathering dust. But now that I'm Operation Baby Weight, I've been weighing myself every day and writing it down in my calendar (a la Bridget Jones).

I hate the scale. It turns the sane into the insane. The secure into the insecure. I mean, I watched 4 tiny little 11 year old girls unnecessarily obsess about their weight because of a damn scale - and one that was created for fun. Your weight should be the last thing in your mind when you're 11 and at the Exploratorium on a field trip with your best friends and the coolest chaperone in the world (me). I hate that every time I go to the doctor I get weighed - and they refuse to subtract 5 lbs for clothes. I hate that it gives me an arbitrary number that can plummet me back into frustration and sadness, even if I've been eating well and exercising.

In graduate school they drilled into our heads the importance of tools of measurement. People can be swayed to change policy with certain things - data being one. And you need tools of measurement to get data. So as much as I hate the scale - its starkness, its unwillingness to be flexible, its inability to recognize when I'm trying - I recognize that I need it. Though I'd like to measure my progress by whether or not I fit into my jeans, that's not the most objective measure (since sometimes I fit them in the morning before breakfast and sometimes I don't fit them in the evening after dinner). But if the number on the scale is decreasing daily, maybe I am doing the right thing. And if it's not, maybe I should switch it up.

Either way, I'm sure I'd prefer to be measured by my weight on Mars . . .

My Son, the Future Trainer

I am writing this mainly as a reminder to myself.

So it's Friday, which means it's time for Vernon's Hip Hop class at the gym. I have been excited about going for the past 2 weeks (we didn't have class last week because of the holidays) because I really enjoyed the first class. However, around 3pm today I began thinking I would not go . . .

See, it's New Year's Day. Not that the baby and I were out clubbing til dawn - matter of fact we barely (well, I did, he was knocked out around 10pm) made it to 12 am. But yesterday I forgot to take a nap. I have survived the last 2 weeks by taking naps during the day to prepare me for the long nights (the baby is pretty consistent in waking up every 2-3 hours at night). I don't know if I felt like Superwoman or what, but I didn't take my customary nap and as a result, the 4am and the 6am feedings were particularly brutal.

So today I was tired. Very tired. And I felt if I didn't go to class but used that non-baby time to sleep, I'd be justified. I'm a new mother after all.

I battled with myself for about an hour before deciding that I would not go and I would instead sleep. However, my son had other ideas. While I had been having my internal battle, he had been asleep. Once I decided I would not be attending Vernon's class, he woke up - and was feeling quite demanding. After I had changed and fed him and we had done some laps in my home, I was fully awake and feeling a bit re-energized. I decided that the baby was trying to help me get back on the exercise horse.

So I went to class. And it was GREAT! I had such a good time! I worked up a sweat, I danced and I really enjoyed myself.

So far, my child is earning his keep . . .