Thursday, February 26, 2009

Why I'm glad my life isn't a reality TV show

This past weekend something happened to me that was so embarrassing I found myself thinking, "I should either blog about this, or never tell another living soul that it happened." As it turns out, I value humor over dignity so I'm going to share it.

It all started when it was time for me to spruce up the roots situation with a box o' blonde. I topped off the baby with a fresh shot of milk and saw to it that my toddler was busy playing games on the computer with daddy and got to work. Literally moments after slathering toxic goop all over my head, the baby started to cry. Allow me to describe what I was wearing at the time: nursing bra, yoga pants, plastic gloves covered in hair dye. What does one do in this situation? There is no chapter in the Dr. Sears book that covers this particular dilemma.

Next thing I knew, my husband was approaching me with the crying baby in his arms. I held my hands up, giving him the international gesture for "I have hair dye on my hands and can't breastfeed my baby". My husband, bless his heart, unlatched my nursing bra and held up our sweet innocent son up to the milk source while I stood there with my gloved hands above my head, marveling at the ridiculousness of the situation. Nothing makes you feel more like a mom than hands-free nursing with a head full of L'Oreal.

Let it just be said that I believe my marriage has been tested and has been found to be sound. And my roots look pretty damn good.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Post-baby body consciousness

One week postpartum:
Amidst the joy, the exhaustion, the whirlwind of guests and the bliss of showing off the newborn, there's not a lot of thought or concern about the bod. Plus, I'm kind of amazed by what it can do. It can make a baby! And push it out of a pinhole! Wow, I love my amazing, wondrous body. Isn't life fabulous? At least until the next hormone crash.

Two weeks postpartum:
I actually stand naked in front of a mirror for the first time. And I find myself thinking, "Considering that two weeks ago, I looked like a moored houseboat, this is not so bad." Plus, I'm still kind of on that "amazing, wondrous" kick. Wahoo! Somebody pass me my stretchy pants.

Three weeks postpartum:
I try on pants with an actual waistband. Not a chance. I try on my maternity jeans... the "sexy" ones. Wait, why did I think these were sexy again? Nothing in my closet... literally NOTHING... looks good on me right now. I'm seriously considering buying a "Slanket" -- you know, the blanket with a hole for your head and sleeves? You've seen the infomercials.

Four weeks postpartum:
I stand naked in front of the mirror again. Holy hell. My body is a hot mess. I go to the gym. Granted, it's for a whopping 20 minutes because I have to come back and feed my child, but it's a start. I've come full circle and now recognize the frump that is my person and I am taking care of bidness, people.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Hi, I'm JJ and I'm a Frumpaholic

Until last night, I hadn't had makeup on in 18 days. I had left the house on less than five occasions in almost three weeks, and three of those occasions were on foot. I have been living.... no, festering... in frump since my son was born. AND I HAVE BEEN LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT. Oh, the joy of wearing no bra (what's the point when it's off 20 out of every 24 hours?), no constricting clothing (if I owned a button down caftan, I'd be rocking it daily), no makeup (for whose benefit... my newborn? my toddler? the mailman?), and no hair product (unless you count grease). It has truly been a joy. And yet, I know these days are coming to and end and I'm okay with that. There's only so long one can live with oneself in the throes of frump. Despite the sheer joy of it all, I must admit that I'm starting to feel guilty about how long it's been since my husband was reminded of the woman he married. Don't get me wrong... I feel like I earned each and every minute of this frumpfest. I don't feel guilty about barely leaving the couch or bed (I mean, how could I, really? I still basically have my crotch in a sling.) And I'm someone who actually loves with a capital "L" these early days of doing nothing but snuggling my baby, being a walking milk delivery system and getting drunk off the smell of new baby head. But the frump buzz is wearing off. I'm starting to want to shower because it's what normal folks do rather than because I'm offending people I love. I'm beginning to look longingly and lovingly at my pants with actual waistbands (not that it means they'll fit). And I'm utterly appalled at my finger/toenail situation, though I'm not going to fix it anytime soon. But for now, it's just nice to be here, frumped out beyond belief, and it's also nice to know that there is a time in my not-so-distant future where this will be merely a hazy memory. Kind of like the completely intoxicating smell of my son's fuzzy little head. It's bittersweet, I tell you.