GOAL 2: Money

I've got Dom Perignon tastes on a Bartles & James budget. 

The overindulgence that I spoke of yesterday extends beyond just food, it also applies to purchasing things. 
Everything from shoes to baking supplies to, unfortunately, houses. I have made a life of buying things which I can't afford and I've often blamed my low wages on my nonexistent bank account balance, but the truth is that my personal lack of control is more to blame than the fact that I'm underpaid (I will always maintain that I should be earning more, but hopefully resolution 3 will take care of that. And really, you are supposed to live within your means. It's dress for the job you want, not spend that way, Kelly). Terrance and I had a discussion the other day we're both tired of the way we live. We want to be more in control of things. I read a story years ago about a couple that went one year without buying anything they didn't need. They bought food only at the grocery store - no trips out to eat. They checked out books and movies from the library - no cable, no Barnes and Noble, no movies. No vacations, weekend trips, day trips or trips to the mall. They didn't spend anything they didn't need to. This sounds like a boring life, but they were also able to pay off a substantial amount of debt by the end of the year by only doing that. And, as an added bonus, they were happier because they learned to live on only what they needed and not what they wanted. They appreciated everything around them so much more. They tried new foods, they just cooked themselves.These are values I wish to install in Logan. It's important to me that he understand how important it is to be smart with your money. So starting in January, we are going to try to go 12 months.

Three hundred and sixty five days of conscious minimalism. It will be hard. I am frugal. I buy clearance shoes. I just buy a lot of them. I will make lists and set budgets and clip coupons. I will do this. I'm not willing to put my debt out there. Between the two mortgages, car payments, student debt, and Visa, it's a lot. I don't plan on being debt free by 2016. But I'd like my debt to shrink. 

(I'd like to at least be rid of Visa. That bitch is annoying.) 

GOAL 1: WEIGHT

My never ending struggle with my weight has intensified. We're basically at a DEFCON 1 in my own personal battle of the bulge. Clothed, I find myself to be pleasantly plump. I'm learning to dress my postpartum body. Draping seems key. And cardigans. And scarves. Empire wastes are an absolute no no. As are hip hugging jeans that tend to hit me right under my still present belly.  It's the times that I catch myself in the mirror unclothed that I have trouble. I stare, not unlike a tailgater passing the gnarled wreckage of a highway collision, at my midsection. The dimpled and indented graffitti of stretchmarks and extra fat marring the once smooth landscape of my abdomen. Women on the internet call them "tiger stripes" that I should wear like a badge of honor. I crave that self confidence, to look at them and see anything but my failure to prevent what I promised myself wouldn't happen. I study the lumps and bumps of my upper thighs and, perhaps the silver lining, I marvel at the size of my (now enormous) breasts, conscious that they are, at every moment, inflating with milk. The fat on my back - the adipose filled skin that rolls over itself under no pressure whatsoever- is my biggest nemesis. No amount of sucking in makes it go away. The thing is, I've been overweight before. I've blogged about my previous struggles. I've fought pesky pounds that won't go away. But this time it's harder, for many reasons.


I take responsibility for my part of this. I know that I have to shoulder the blame for my current inability to fit into a single pair of the pants that are currently gathering cobwebs in my closet.  I would be lying if I said I had no idea why I couldn't lose the weight. The truth is that when you don't exercise and you eat whatever you want, and what you want to eat is chocolate and pizza and other foods that you're not supposed to, it's tough to drop the pounds. But this struggle of mine has been different, this time.

First, there are a lot of post partum issues that I have had that I don't want to talk about on this blog, but it's taken me almost a year to be able to walk around the block without pain. It's frustrating, especially when everyone tells you you can start exercising at 6 weeks. I registered for a jogging stroller.  I had visions of Logan and I going on runs, enjoying the summer together. I had plans to sign us up for races. My truth is that at 6 weeks post partum, I could not roll out of bed without feeling like my pelvis was breaking in two. Trying to walk ended in tears. Stepping over the side of the tub to take a shower often made me double over in pain. I waited for it to get better. It didn't. Finally, at 12 weeks, I went to the doctor. She informed me that my pelvis was out of line and my bladder was falling. She sent me to a chiropractor, who assured me that it was bone and nerve related. He assigned me a 7 week long course of treatment at the end of which I  could walk from my desk to the bathroom without grimacing. I could not run. I could not even walk for exercise. I tried different videos to try and work different parts of my body to try and tone up. I was unsuccessful. I was also $500 poorer from copays and extra fees for service. I considered that to be a poor return on my investment. So I went to the physical therapist. She informed me that there was nothing wrong with my pelvis or my bones, but that it was all muscular. 4 and a half hours of pushing had damaged me. My pelvic floor muscles were weak. I needed physical therapy. I had more success with her. At the end of a month of treatment, I could walk ONE MILE without pain. If I kept up the exercises she gave me, I would be fine. So I left, armed with an exercise band and a sheet of exercises to do to strengthen my pelvic floor.  I'm bad at homework. I'm also alone with the baby a lot. Self care has fallen by the wayside as the need for sleep and nourishment take precedence over the need to exercise my pelvic floor. As I sit here typing this, I can actually feel my bladder. You are not supposed to be able to feel that. It's unsettling. But it's life. I haven't tried running yet. I can walk about 2 miles now without crying. That's progress. And the pain doesn't linger with me for days like it used to. Also progress.

I'm an emotional eater. I used to consider myself a stress eater, but then I realized that just about any emotion I have is an excuse for me to eat. I eat when I'm stressed about work, I eat when I'm sad about my job. I eat when I've had a good day at work. I eat because I'm stressed about Logan. I eat to reward myself if I've had a good day with Logan. I eat because I'm stressed out about Terrance being out of town and I eat because I'm so happy and relieved that he's come home. I eat because I'm frustrated that I can't do what I want. I eat because I can't run. I eat because I'm hungry, because I'm tired, because I'm sad, because I'm happy, and because I'm bored. I eat because I think something looks good and, damn it, I DESERVE it. My life is hard. Chocolate is good. I love chocolate. Not dark chocolate, not some BS Fiber One chocolate brownies; I enjoy creamy milk chocolate. Preferably by the pound. Occasionally mixed with nougat. Or nuts. Maybe hazelnuts? I do consider my life to be more colorful now that I have Nutella in it. I could write an even longer paragraph about my love of pizza, but in the interest of brevity, I will just assume that you get the point.

So what happens when you have no real metabolism to speak of, you can't exercise, and you eat whatever the hell you want? You end up sitting in front of a computer writing about how you're depressed because you're 50 pounds heavier than the day you conceived your child. My goal is to have 15 of it gone by Logan's birthday - March 3. And the rest gone by sometime after that. I'll reevaluate numbers and tonnage goals if I reach that. The point is I'm going to try. We started exercising at work. Little things, every day at 3. Hopefully, with that spark and a Costco size bottle of Advil to dull the pain, I'll be on my way. I'm also trying to cut it down to no more than 100 10 Hershey kisses a day. And eat more veggies. And drink more water.

Hopefully, small daily goals + big weight goal = Happy 2015.

Wish me luck. I'm going to need it.

New Year Goals

A coworker asked me if I had ever considered writing a blog, given my awesome sense of humor and what some have called "the voice of this generation". I sheepishly told  her how I like to be called the voice of this generation and that I already had a blog. This one. She enjoyed it and I have to admit it's always nice for people for people to tell you that you're good at something.

Her comment prompted me to browse through my posts in the last five years. It felt a little like when I check my Timehop every day. Timehop is an app for phones. You sync it with your social media accounts and it tells you what you've done on that day in the past. The thing is, it's fun to look back sometimes using Timehop and see how much things have changed - a facebook post about a hangover compared to the fact that you're up at 5 with a baby these days, an instagram of you when you had different hair, etc. When I looked through my past blog posts, there were a lot of commonalities. The running theme since at least 2011 has been me stressed or unhappy or both. And I'd like to change that. I've done some reading on the subject, and according to people who know more than me about changing your life situation, writing out your goals to organize them and keeping a journal of things can help. I'd like to do that.

The thing is, I've never been much of a journal keeper. My aunt and uncle got me a diary for my birthday in the sixth grade. It was fuschia and turquoise with a picture of a vintage convertible on the hard, shiny cover. I was way more excited about the lock and key that came with it than the actual act of journaling my life. My thoughts throughout my life have never lived all that long in my head. I give them almost immediately to the nearest person. This both gets me in trouble an amuses me. A lot. So my goal, as the new year approaches, is to organize my life in such a way that I don't spend hours trying to figure out how I got here, but instead I will try and figure out how to get where I want to go. This incessant drowning feeling is getting old. So thats where the blog comes in. I will list my goals for the year and hope to give a somewhat regular update on my progress. More for me, but out there for you to judge and ridicule. A commitment. I hope to achieve at least one of them. Or at least take some solace in the fact that I am actively trying to change my life for the better.

So the next few posts will have to do with my 3 big goals for a happier 2015: Get my weight under control, get my finances under control, and figure out what the hell I'm gonna do with the rest of my life.

flashbacks

When I was posting before, I found this among the many drafts I had started while I was on leave and it made me LOL. Those first weeks are so hard... it doesn't matter what you do, no one prepares you for it. And now, with just 3 more months of surviving by the skin of my teeth parenting under my belt, I feel like this person is not me anymore:

Blogging is something that people with extra time do.

I have all these things to say and I don't have time to say them.
Lets start with the big stuff. I had Logan. Labor was hell. I have no desire to document my experience with labor because there's not a chance in hell that, in 50 years, if someone asks me what my Labor with Logan was like, I won't have a flashback and be able to relive it. I'll be the first to admit, I've led a relatively cushy life thus far, but that was my Vietnam. Almost 20 hours of labor and an excruciating, frustrating, draining 4.5 hours of pushing and then there he was. A vernix covered, blue tinted baby. I was too tired to react... I went into auto pilot. I knew that I was supposed to do skin to skin so I did. The lactaction consultant came in and showed me how to breast feed so I did. I was so tired. So physically and mentally exhausted.  I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for not taking the damn c section when it was offered to me. I don't even remember the exact moment that I felt whatever it is mothers are supposed to feel for their newborns, but by the third day in the hospital when Terrance tried to dress him in his adorable going home outfit and Logan started crying, I pushed Terrance aside. Causing the baby discomfort wasn't worth the adorable button down shirt and tie that he was meant to go home in. Causing him anything but comfort wasn't an option. So he went home in an oversized, boring blue sleeper.

Little Logan. Oh dear, little Logan. One day, when you grow up and forget about your mom and everything she's done for you, I'm going to tell you stories about your first 2 months on earth. Parenthood is hard. At this point, victory is making it through the day with my sanity intact. Not cracking all day is a good day. I love Logan more than I every thought I could love anything. I try and read to him and I can't make it through a book because I'm so overcome with emotion. But Holy Christ. He does not make it easy. He cries. A lot. About everything and nothing at all. He cries in the morning. In the afternoon and at night. He won't sleep longer than 2 hours. The other night we made it to 2 hours and 10 minutes and I had to go check on him because i was sure he had stopped breathing. He spits up a lot. He spits up huge amounts of food. If it's breast milk, it was damn hard work getting...

I must have gotten distracted. The baby must have woken up or gotten hungry or I must have drifted off.

I still have trouble with the thought of going through labor again. The board I follow online is filled with women who are getting pregnant again or desperately want to. I can't imagine anything more terrifying. I was more uncomfortable during my pregnancy than most people knew and I still have lingering pain. I sometimes wonder if the fact that I can't forget how hard it was for me is because I have a constant reminder. Overall, though, the joy of parenthood has been something that I can't put in words. In fact, the word joy seems woefully inadequate. Logan and I have shared some rough moments here and there, but he's quite easy to love. Plus, he slept 7 hours straight last night, making him more lovable still.

perspective

Perspective. [per-spek-tiv] a :  the interrelation in which a subject or its parts are mentally viewed  perspective>;also :  point of view

My last post was decidedly depressing. I had (and continue to have) been having a particularly rough time at work, and the stress of my life as a single mom came crashing down in one melodramatic blog entry. It was a catharsis, a way to get my feelings out into the world so that they stopped weighing me down so much. In reality, sometimes life is hard. Not just my life. But life, in general. My father used to tell me that only things are guaranteed in life: death and taxes. The rest of it is basically a crap shoot. You play the hand you are dealt and hope for the best. I probably wouldn’t win the World Series of Poker with my current hand, I could have it worse.  So while I think I’m entitled to my feelings, I fully admit that the extent of my despair may have been impacted by my tendency for hyperbole and, perhaps, some lingering postpartum hormones.  A very dear friend who I have known for a very long time has had a stretch of bad breaks that makes my life look easy. When she called and told me about her most recent issue, a couple of things happened. I cried a little, I googled a lot and I gained some perspective. Sometimes your life just isn’t in sync with where you think it should be and you just have to say bye, bye, bye to the sadness, and self pity and accept the life you have.   And while life hasn’t exactly Gone the way I thought it would, it’s time to stop letting that tear up my heart.  I need to find a way to be at peace with where I am. Only I can do that, I shouldn’t rely on other people for my happiness. It’s not going to be Terrance that fixes me, It’s gonna be me.

So I’m moving on. I can’t say for sure that the thoughts of regret an inadequacy won’t creep back into my head, but I’m going to try my best to push them aside and focus on the good things, strive to change what I don’t like, and be more content with where I am in the moment. This, for now, is either at work or at home, being held hostage by Logan. He has been having some eating issues at day care, so he is extremely hungry when he comes home, which means I get to feed him until he goes to bed. He’s also going through a sleep regression that some babies (and their bleary eyed mothers) go through around 4 months.  We’re partying like we’re 8 weeks old again. 

From what I can tell, it’s pretty normal. Everything I seem to think is a problem is “normal”, which is nice, but the internet is filled with women who make you feel like if your child isn't able to get themselves out of bed and make themselves breakfast by 6 months, you’re a complete failure and your child should be in therapy. Mine isn't even rolling over on a consistent basis. I try and not let the thoughts that there's something wrong with him creep into my head. He seems like a perfectly happy, healthy little boy. As long as he doesn't think there's something wrong, I'll go with it. 

Terrance has been home for 2 whole weeks straight now. It's weird. We've had visitors basically the whole time, but not having the burden of everything with Logan and the dogs and the house fall on my shoulders has been nice. I'm sleeping more. :) I would say that I am a more pleasant person to be around, but I don't know that I'm brave enough to ask anyone else if they agree...

I posted a picture recently on Instagram and facebook. It’s of me, standing in front of some sunflowers at a community garden I work with. It’s what the kids these days are calling a “selfie”.  At first I didn’t want to post it. I didn't like it. In all honesty, I just wanted to show how tall the sunflowers have gotten this year. When I looked at it, I saw my hair out of place, the discoloration of my teeth (except for that pesky one that stays white while the others stain from the gallons of coffee a new born forces you to consume), my crooked smile and nose that no one ever seems to notice but me. I saw a collection of my imperfections. But I posted it anyway, because 7 foot sunflowers are cool. And people liked it. About 30 people to be exact. I’m sure half of them like the sunflowers, and that’s cool. They’re likeable, happy flowers.  But after people liked and commented on it, I look at the picture again. It’s a perfectly lovely picture. I look happy and the flowers are nice. The colors are good. Sometimes, you have to gain a little perspective to see what the big picture really looks like. In a lot of ways, that picture is a metaphor for my life. I have spent a lot of time focusing in on and examining the imperfections of my life.

Every once in a while, it’s good to look at the picture as a whole.

Maybe it’s not so bad, after all. 

Life after a baby...

It’s taken me a long time to write this post. The last 4 months of my life have been a roller coaster of emotions, sometimes due to the changes in my actual chemical make-up, sometimes due to my circumstances, sometimes good, but other times bad. I had the baby. Labor was, well, laborious. At the end of many hours of labor including 4.5 hours of pushing, out came Logan Jame Bragg. 9 pounds, 11.6 ounces. He is, without a doubt the best part of my life. He also makes me think of things in such a different way. The importance of certain things is magnified. Having a baby has been a catalyst to so many conversations I've had with myself and with others about where I am, where I want to be and why it feels like I’ll never make it. And the reality is that, even though I’m amazed at the capacity we have to love our offspring and my heart explodes with love for this little boy every second of everyday, it’s still not enough.

My life is lacking.

I’m not OK.

I. AM. UNHAPPY.

This is something that we aren't supposed to admit when we've got an adorable brand new bouncing baby boy who we love at home. Being a mother is supposed to make the world make sense. Nothing else matters. And Logan truly does make me happy. I cherish the moments I have with him. My life before him seems like a universe away… I can remember life without him, but I can’t imagine what life would be like now if he wasn't here. Suddenly, my old, pre baby life seems glaringly incomplete. Like a paint by number painting missing an entire digit. I hold on to my moments with him so fiercely and yet they slip away. They seem like grains of sand, running too quickly through my fingers.  I just want to pause these moments and be able to hold on to them. (I guess that’s what Instagram is for.)  I love watching him explore his world – things that I long ago stopped observing, he views with wonder and amazement and an intense concentration that is wonderful to observe. The vibrant green of the grass in our back yard, the trees blowing in the wind, the ceiling fan (that last one is really just him. Ceiling fans are really not exciting to watch anymore… but he loves them!) I also worry about him, as most mothers do. When he's crying, as he does quite often, is he sick? I've convinced myself more than once that he has autism because he won’t make eye contact with me. 8 week olds aren't really good at the whole eye contact thing yet. I think about who he’ll be and what he’ll like. I wonder if he’ll marry or have kids of his own. I wonder if he’ll prefer sports or academics. I wonder what the world will be like for him as he grows. Even now, I’m smiling thinking about it…

And yet, I am not happy. Motherhood is wonderful. It truly, truly is. But it has also consumed my life and left little of me to give to everything else. I should first say that I understand that my issues are first world problems. I am grateful to have a job. But Maslow didn't stop at just food and shelter and work. True self-actualization requires self-esteem, confidence, and an entire top tier filled with things I don’t do. In fact, my current situation has so damaged my self-esteem and confidence about my abilities that I’m having trouble convincing myself that I’m worth pursuing another job, on the nights I have enough energy to job hunt. I read listings for positions that I love and immediately, my mind goes to “it’s not like I’d ever get that job anyway” and I click on, searching for something that I feel like I’d be good at. That I deserve.  

It used to be having a job that I didn't enjoy and didn't challenge me was just an annoyance. Something to pass the time while I finished school. Now, I find myself with a decade of experience and a masters degree with nothing more than student loans to show for it.  Now, it’s a rotting albatross around my neck. Something that prevents me from spending time with my child. Something that makes me take my child to another woman. A woman that will probably see him roll over, sit up, crawl and walk before I do. A woman who gets to enjoy smiles and coos all day while I fight with the bad sleeper all night. I think back to a time when I had dreams of doing more and my life now looks like a scattered mess of unfulfilled potential. I could have been great. The pieces were all there. I just didn't put them together.

And I understand that my life is out of balance.  Part of it is that Terrance got a new job with a great new company. He’s doing very well and I’m incredibly proud of him. It also means his work schedule is that he’s gone just about 3 weeks out of every month. So, for Logan, Leo, Baxter and Charlie, I am it. I take care of the baby. I take care of the house. I take care of the dogs. It’s what I do when I’m not at work. It’s who I am now.  Part of it is that I’m breastfeeding, so I am tied to him. I can’t go see a movie or get my hair done or anything that will separate me from him for more than 3 hours, even if I had help. Sometimes, breastfeeding feels like an anchor so heavy that I’ll never reach the surface again. And then, truth be told, sometimes I love it. Which is good because I've found that the whole “breastfeed and the baby weight will just fall off” is the biggest load of crap that anyone has ever shoveled. They love to tell you that you burn 500-600 calories a day breastfeeding. The tiny print on that is that you have to replace it or your supply goes down. Nerds. Part of it is that I'm still in pain. Things didn't exactly snap back together like they were supposed to. I still can't walk around the block comfortably. I still wake up in pain. Pre baby, I was a runner. I wasn't a fast runner, but I ran. Now I have to grimace through my sedentary work to go home and lift a little person and all of his accoutrements. Being in constant pain is draining. It does a number on your outlook. I'm getting help, but progress is slow and frustrating.

As I drove to work today, on the verge of tears as I am most days I drive to work, I suddenly got mad. Why? Because it’s not fair. I got mad because I had to leave my son to come to this job. Because I don't have a lot of help. I want to be able to go to the store by myself. And then I feel guilty because I want to be away from him. And I really don't. But just for a little. To feel like a person unto myself again - just Kelly. Not being solely defined as Logan's mom or Terrance's wife. And because I want to be able to be the me I want to be.   I really could have done more. And I haven’t. I always thought that if you’re nice and you work hard, things will happen for you.  For the past two years, every move I've made has been for someone else. I encouraged Terrance to take a job in Ohio because it would do so much for his career. And it has. And I’m grateful. I took a job I knew I wouldn't like so that I could move to Ohio and be with my husband. For 6 months, I commuted two and a half hours round trip for him.  I stayed at that job for our family. I wanted a house for our family. Now, I’m faced with the reality that I’m stuck. And I don’t blame Terrance. I did encourage him. I’m happy that he’s doing so well. But where does that leave me? When do I get to make a move for myself again? Never? Am I still allowed to want more? Or do my roles as mother and wife simply have to trump my role as person, at least right now? I am aware that Logan, despite my strenuous objections will continue to grow and move on. This time is so brief, should I just settle in for the professionally unfulfilled, intellectually stunted ride now? In a year will it be better? 5 years?  

From my observations, women are faced with this dilemma more than men. Is it because we are the mothers, the sustenance providers, the traditional care  givers? Are we just biologically wired to do this? Has the universe set us up this way? My schooling goes well beyond my husband's and I am an actual card carrying member of NOW, yet when I became pregnant, my career took an immediate back seat to his. He has continued to advance and I'm, on my best day, treading water.

To recap, I had a baby. And now I get to figure out where the rest of me is supposed to go.

Terrance and I had a conversation the other day about our move up here and how I have trouble driving by Dayton because it makes me sad. I remember when we were moving here – the excitement. The anticipation. The hope that life would be better. And in ways, it is. But in some ways, nothing has changed.

But in one greater-than-I-ever-could-have-imagined-it-could-be way it has. And maybe that's enough for right now.