Whole 30: reentry and results

Okay I promise I'll shut up about the Whole 30 soon. Really soon. But first I wanted to share some stats and insights.

We officially ended our Whole 30 on Saturday evening (it was a vigil feast, I suppose you could say) in anticipation of Sunday. So it was a Whole 29. We ended up at the Rio because we are a. predictable and b. Mexican food is worth it.

Here's the weird part: the margaritas were good, but they weren't that good. And I only had one. That has never happened before. I only wanted one. And I'm not even pregnant.

So the clear, harsh light of Monday morning has broken and I'm happy? Confused? Resigned? to report that alcohol isn't really worth it. Dairy isn't really worth it. And grains of all varieties? Meh. I'm not really that relieved to have reintroduced anything back into my diet, save for tortilla chips. And even those don't hold the sway over me they once did. So going forward, I don't think it's going to be all that challenging to keep eating paleo most of the time. Not even the 80/20 ratio I was envisioning, but probably something closer to 95/5. I'm serious. And nobody is more surprised than me.

Dave is lactose intolerant and we've known about it for a while, but I'm totally wondering if I am too, now. And that kind of sucks but it's nice to know that if I want to feel really good, I know how to make that happen.

So on to the really exciting stuff (though honestly, feeling this good and clear-headed is surprisingly just as exciting as the weight lost. But I know what you came here to find out):

In 30 days of eating Whole 30 (with two intentional cheats) I lost 12 lbs. I went down one jeans size (and I'm flirting with the next size down). I lost 1 inch from my waist, 1 from my bust, and 2 from my hips. 

Dave lost 11.5 lbs so technically I won, but who's really keeping score? Ahem.

Basically it was a smashing success, and I'll probably keep cooking paleo for our main meals and have a glass of wine or two on the weekends. It's been a total life change for the better, and I'm so relieved to have seen it through to the end. I'll probably do another strict Whole 30 sometime in the future, but for now I'm so excited to have one under my (looser) belt.

Anyone else out there made it through the month of no fun? Feeling surprised about any part of it in particular? Cut any nastiness out of your diet permanently? Fed up with the whole thing and think it's totally overrated? Do tell.

Oh gosh, and here are some pictures. I didn't really take "before" shots because vanity, but oh, lucky you, here's roughly how I looked before our month of fun, courtesy of a 4 year old who always finds the iPhone AND the most flattering angle possible. Thanks, Joey:

Wow 

And wow-er.
(My little sister calls those our "arm legs." Family heirlooms bestowed on each female in the dynasty.)

And here's me now:

I feel really good. I'm back at pre-Evie weight, but I may have been a tad (ahem, 20 lbs or so) overweight when we conceived her, so I'd love to lose another 10 or 15 lbs. If I don't, no big deal, but I'm definitely going to keep working at it. 

I've also been working out twice a week with a trainer at our gym primarily to tone my core and strengthen my lower back. And by tone I mean dig around and see if there are any intact muscle fibers still connected in that region. It has been hard. But good. And it gives me hope that if we're blessed with another pregnancy or seven in the future, my spine isn't going to give out. 

So there you have it. One Whole 30 done, one whole new perspective on food and nutrition, and one very reformed beer aficionado who now prefers seltzer water. Most of the time.

Meat me at the weekend: the Whole 30 draws to a close

I am going CRAZY trying to gut it out for the last couple days (hours, really) of this Whole 30. Full disclosure folks: I cheated. Twice, by my conscious reckoning.

The first time was on Day 23, last week, after a full morning spent wrestling Evie at Children's hospital when it turned out she needed 5 vials of blood drawn. I think they maaaaaybe got 2.5 ml before her vein blew (what a lovely turn of phrase) and the poor, sweating lab tech solemnly vowed he would rework the math on her orders and make that minuscule amount streeeeeetch to get all the required tests. She fell asleep 4.3 seconds after they pulled the needle out of her arm and I fell open-mounted into a bottle of pinot noir at 6 pm that night. So shoot me.

Ironically, Insatiable. Possibly would have been compliant if blended with gallon of olive oil  in background.

The second time was the night before last, after hearing the news of my grandpa's death (not a shock, but still an emotional day for my family) and fielding phone calls from siblings and cousins all day long. I'm the eldest grandchild and child in my family, so I was tapped to be the official harbinger after my dad delivered the news. I fished a hidden IPA out of the meat drawer (see a pattern here?) at dinner time and what do you know, one sip led to another and before that bottle was gone, I had chased it with a fistful of frozen chocolate contraband fished from the freezer. The punchline is thus: my #1 temptation to stray is always liquid in form, and alcohol renders chocolate irresistible to me.

By far the greatest thing about this past month has been the level of self knowledge gained. I have an infinitely better understanding of why I crave things, of what my "triggers" are, so to speak, and of just how powerful food and alcohol are in their influence. I'm delighted with the weight loss of course, (we'll get to that in a minute) but the self mastery Dave and I have both gained in the dietary realm is priceless.

So first, the good. Absolutely the increased fortitude in the face of brownies and Guinness is at the top of the list. It's also been really fun, oddly enough, to discover things that are entertaining/rewarding/pleasurable that don't involve food or drink. Date nights this past month have been more about chatting and snuggling and reading books and drinking tea at Barnes and Noble until 10 pm and less about dropping $60 and 4,000 calories on fajitas and margs before crashing into bed by 8:45. I think it has been good for our relationship to have to stretch a bit to think of alternatives to the standard dinner/drinks itinerary, and I know it has been good for our budget.

Obviously, the weight loss has been awesome. I don't have final numbers yet because SUNDAY is our official end date and I'm being mildly obedient to the method, but last week I cheated and weighed in to find a very pleasant 9 lbs were missing. I'm also down a jeans size and almost a shirt size-and-a-half. Dave is many notches down on his belts and frankly is looking ridiculous in some of his dress shirts (and super hot in his suits) so I think he has at least a dozen pounds missing from his frame, too.

They love when I selfie.

Finally, and perhaps most surprisingly, the energy. I still feel tired in the afternoons but the mornings are like a different person is living in my body. I wake up and feel decent, I can speak in full sentences, and I don't need more than a coffee or two to get things going (and to have them stay going. No more afternoon caffeine cravings!). I also don't stagger into the kitchen screaming for carbohydrates and pushing my kids out of the way to get to the toaster. I still miss the idea of bread but honestly, I'm totally content with the eggs/meat/fruit rotation we're trapped in. It's fine. It's better than fine because it keeps me going till lunch and it really kills the cravings if you never indulge them to begin with.

Our takeaway from this Whole 30 experience can be summed up in one word: moderation. Do I think we'll keep eating Paleo as a rule? Probably. Except when we break the rule. I'm envisioning a 6 days on/1 day off framework that can flex accordingly to account for feast days, cocktail parties and date nights. What I'm not envisioning is adding back grains and dairy into every meal, or even into every day. I'd love to keep our diets at an 80/20 ratio, but we'll have to experiment with adding stuff back in to see how our bodies and our brains respond. I'm not willing to go back to the way I was eating though, or to the power food once had over me. I feel so much more free within this ridiculous framework, and so much more able to institute discipline in other areas of my life. And my kids are eating better.

Now if you'll excuse me I've got to get back to the staring contest I'm having with the box of TJ's sea salt dark chocolate almonds purchased for Sunday's great reawakening. 36 hours to go...

9 months on, 9 months off

I realized yesterday as I was bent upside down coaxing volume into my limp postpartum locks that on the morning of Evie's 9 month birthday, exactly 9 months to the day of her arrival ex utero, I felt like myself. And I was so grateful.

My eldest son punctuated my moment of epiphany by wandering into my bathroom, looking at my washed and styled hair, cocking his head to one side and announcing: "You don't look like my Mommy. Why did you do that to your hairs?" 

It's called a curling iron, son. And your future wife can thank me for setting that bar niiiiiice and low.


When Joey was a baby I obsessed over the concept of "nine months on, nine months off" and was fanatical about trying to coax the nearly 60 lbs I'd gained off my petite frame. I couldn't fathom a future where I walked around borderline obese, and I lamented the boxes and boxes of White Cheddar Cheezits I'd thoughtlessly tossed back while cooking my plump firstborn turkey. Jillian Michaels and I did hard time together most afternoons, and I tried my pre baby pants on once a week, crying in defeat when they wouldn't ascend any further than my hips.

When I finally arrived at the magical number (not even on the scale, but in the pants) I promptly got pregnant a second time and resigned myself to more of the same, only with 100% more gym dedication. I still gained 50 lbs, but I worked out 6 days a week and I was definitely a "fitter" second time preggo. And you know what? The weight came off a little easier, too. But both times I spent a good amount of my post partum "recovery" period doing anything but recovering. Mostly I vacillated between binging on tortilla chips and sticking to a strictly-regimented Weight Watcher's plan which imperiled my milk supply and left me feeling guilty and anxious. (Disclaimer: WW is probably a good fit for lots of people! But for me, with my history of eating disorder, it was a match made in body shaming hell.)

This time has been different. This time I've been more aware that yes, it's frustrating to be bigger and softer and slower than "normal," whatever exactly normal means anymore, but that it is, in fact, temporary. I've spent more time enjoying the baby and less time bemoaning the body. Do I still bitch about my love handles to my sister and cry on the phone to my best friend about my pants size? I mean, absolutely, but it's not the all-consuming focus that it once was.

I wanted to share with you guys some things that I think have helped this time around be my most pleasant postpartum period, mental illness aside.

First, I bought a new wardrobe. Not like a new, new wardrobe, but I went to a couple cheap stores and picked up a 2-sizes-too-big but fits just right right now pair of dark wash, high rise jeans and a plethora of flowy, forgiving tops. I also kept my Blanqi locked firmly in the torso position for the entire 4th trimester, and I was happy. And so were my sprung out hips.

There's nothing more depressing (too me, anyway) in the sartorial realm than shimmying into a big-ass pair of blown out maternity jeans while your 3 week old voms on the bed beside you. Nothing quite like it. Do yourself a favor and retire those belly banded beauties as soon as you check out of hotel hospital. (Unless you had a c-section, because I've heard they're easy on the scars. But otherwise I really can't fathom a reason to put yourself through that.) Old Navy and Walmart are pretty much everywhere, and you can score yourself a $15 pair of skinnies to get you through the dark times.

Second, set measurable, realistic fitness goals, not weight loss goals. My FitBit and the step-counter app I downloaded were invaluable tools that helped me hit my 10,000 step per day target starting back in the spring, and they helped me reacquaint my tired mommy body with physical activity not involving pushing or lifting. On the (many) days I didn't get any further than yoga pants, I at least had some hard evidence for the work I'd put it.

On the matter of physical fitness, it helped me tremendously to retrain my brain to see activity as directly correlated to overall wellness and success in mothering, not only as a means by which I might attain blue jean nirvana. Once I stopped seeing "working out" as some vaguely punitive means by which I might become hot one day and started realizing the real, tangible benefits of physical activity on my energy levels and domestic acumen, something clicked for me and I wanted to work out. Not just to have "worked out," but I craved the actual process instead of obsessing over the desirable end. Game changer, big time.

Finally, I embraced the stupid expression. At least internally. Sitting in Mass with a gassy newborn and catching sight of a skinny friend a few rows up, bouncing her 3-week-old on a slender hip? 9 months on, 9 months off.

Seeing on social media that your college roommate just ran her best ever half marathon time while her 3 month old watched from the sidelines? 9 months on, 9 months off.

Standing in the dressing room at H&M with a 7-month-old sausage strapped to your chest, trying to translate European sizes into US and feeling a stroke coming on when you realize your current size? 9 months on, 9 months off.

Tugging in vain at the zipper on your favorite cocktail dress while your 14-month old tugs at your suddenly shorter hemline, impeding your preparations for a long-awaited date night?

9 months on, 9 months off was just a number, after all.

You were never actually going to *get* your pre baby body back, anyway. Because that body was transformed and transfigured by new life. And no amount of low carbing or tread milling or denim shimmying can erase those effects.

But know this mama: there is a day in your future where you will see your altered and perhaps slightly haggard reflection in your bathroom mirror and you will feel like you again, promise. It might take a few months longer than you expect, and it might happen on a totally different timeline than you envisioned, but she's in there. You're in there. I promise.

And happiest 3/4's birthday to my petite principessa. You're certainly not the size your mama envisioned that you would be today, Genevieve, but you are utterly lovely to behold, and you're super easy on your mama's back.

Silver linings, right?

Whole 30 day 6: the Dreadnoughtus

Today some scientists who used some scientific methods by which they surmised a giant-ass dinosaur the likes of which all of planetary history has been to this point unaware, (well, except for its compatriots, I suppose) announced said creature to the world.

World, I give you dreadnoughts.

Sometimes I listen to NPR, and other times I click on interesting links about astronomy and geology because science! (Which I'm actually kind of unclear on, at least as far as physics and chemistry go...) 

But back to the dinosaur. I couldn't help but feel, as I noted on ye olde Facebook page, a kind of deep, spiritual connection with this marvelous beast who could, apparently, (though how in God's name anyone could know this is unfathomable by this proud bachelor's degree holder in mental health and human services) "would have potentially adapted to be able to eat 24 hours a day, nonstop, with a minimal amount of sleep."

How could I not feel immediate and irrevocable kinship with such a creature? Needing to eat 24 hours a day and surviving on a minimal amount of sleep?

Call me, Dreaddie, we'll go to happy hour when September ends.

So day 6 dawned today, and I was not too exhausted upon waking, which was a really great change from being so, so angry at the rising of the sun that I could hardly even look anybody in the eye until 8:40 am. Really nice change.

Fast forward to lunch time and I found myself happily serving up quesadillas and goldfish crackers (nothing but the best for my snowflakes) and not twitching and slapping my own hands away from my mouth. Then, in the really craziest part of it, I waited until baby was fed, naps were started, and preschooler was occupied with quiet time before assembling and eating my own lunch...at 1:24 pm. That is literally the longest I've ever waited to eat lunch in my entire career as a stay at home mom. Usually I'm eyeing the stove clock as it flips from 10:59 to 11 am, one hand poised over the grande bag of Veggie Straws and the other hacking cheese into cubes. 

I mean I live for lunch. It's this beautiful intersection of savory carbs, uninterrupted internet browsing and sweet, sweet (short lived) silence during the nap/quiet time hour(s). 

Whole 30 lunches are not those kind of lunches. It's hard to get excited about lettuce wraps, especially when there's no cheese involved. The silence was still golden, but there were no tortilla chips to keep me company.

This post is wandering but I promise I'll tie back to that super weird intro. Promise.

By 6 pm I was getting into hangry territory when I burst in the garage door with all kids on deck and found my sweet, sweet husband leisurely gathering the ingredients for paleo spaghetti (squash) and meatballs and I might have snapped a bit. We persevered though, and 45 minutes later our flourless Italian feast was on the table. 

Five minutes into that delicious dinner, a decidedly unfamiliar sensation knocked on the door of my subconscious. 

Hey, stomach, you're full now. You can stop.

I looked down at my half empty plate in wonder, and I realized that without the soft, crusty baguette accompanying a bowl of seasoned olive oil and balsamic, there was nothing pushing me onward to finish this meal. Weird. And so freeing. 

So I boxed it up for tomorrow's lunch and went about our evening routine and then some. I actually dismissed daddy from bedtime duties and KP to go watch some football, so good was I feeling.

"I got this, babe," I smiled and shooed him out the door.

I think he half walked, half ran to his car, looking over his shoulder to see how long it would take me to start sobbing and begging him to come back because "I'm so tired! I need more help!"

But it didn't happen. And I feel fine.

I guess I'm not a dreadnoughtus any more. I feel more like a human, albeit one who needs probably more sleep than the average person, but who can feel pretty great on 8 hours, a single shot of espresso and a whole lot of vegetables and bacon.

Day 7, I'm looking at you.

(I should note, while I've attempted the Whole30 a couple times before, this is the furthest I've ever gotten without cheating. The slope is slippery, but I'm treading cautiously onward, interested to see what another week or two on the plan feels like. And there's a reason it's got a "30" tacked on to it: it's only a month. I mean, you can do anything for a month. I think. I can.)

Me and my spray paint labored all week

Well not the entire weekend. First we, as in the husband and I, not the Krylon and I, jaunted downtown Friday night to watch the notorious Rocky Mountain Showdown at the Bronco's stadium. CU (go Buffs?) vs. CSU, grain alcohol, public transportation, tailgating in a Prius, half nekkid fans everywhere, Oreo McFlurry at midnight.

I don't think there's anything more to tell.

Saturday dawned and I told myself, self, it's time to whip this house into shape. Get in the car, we're going to Saver's.

I was on the hunt for a bookshelf or low table to use the in kids' school corner, something to go on the wall over our bed, and a handful of other might wants and must haves. I try to have a list going in so that when I'm caught up in the moment of delight over a $2.99 price tag on some piece of ... something, I can reign myself back by asking "was this on the list?" or at least, "could this potentially work instead of something on the list?"

Never go thrifting unless you're willing to walk out empty handed. Otherwise, you'll be doomed to enter into the damning karmic cycle of what Dave affectionately calls "renting from Goodwill." I'll let you scratch your own pretty little head and figure that one out.

Bottom line, crap in = crap out.

So here's a few cute things I ended up with:

This little cutie was still sporting it's Target tags and rang up at 3.49 with my coupon (I am one hundred years old in this post.) because it was missing the shattered central mirror. No problem though, because Dave has put a moratorium on any more mirrors entering our house (also, our closet doors are mirrored. not my fault.) for the time being, and I was looking for a pop of color anyway. So

I unscrewed the backing, hit it with some turquoise spray paint, waited 4 minutes, smudged it, repainted, waited 8 minutes, and then screwed it back together. It looks awesome over our bed, and I swear it winks at me when I walk into the room.

Love love love our bedroom now.

Next up, while not a thrifted project, I got really grossed out about our pantry yesterday around 7 pm and started snapping pictures of it. I guess with you fine people in mind, but mostly to shame myself into doing something about it.

(forgive me, I'm 13 years old and I just learned how to make a picture collage:)

Horrifying, right? It's like Food Hoarders.

In my (our?) defense it was 60% spices, but I am still ashamed.

So I hit up the Dollar Tree this morning and found some not hideous plastic containers and, armed with my trusty can of white Rustoleum and some elbow grease, I emptied, cleaned, touched up and then re-stocked our closet of chaos into what Joey is now calling "the grocery store in our house."

Looking at these pictures, I see that he's right. We have food in abundance, enough that we can display it on shelves and actually take the time to make it look pretty, meanwhile the world is starving...I don't know, I just feel kind of crazy for caring what my food storage situation looks like in the face of poverty. I didn't mean to go there, I just think a lot about this post whenever I'm in my kitchen now, and it kind of makes me feel like an ass. A grateful ass, but still.

 Anyway, here's the big reveal:

SO MUCH BETTER RIGHT? And I didn't even mop the floor. I give it 4 days. But what a lovely and organized 4 days it will be.

Finally, the dirty dirty you all came here to read: the Whole 30. We're on day 4 and it hasn't been that bad! I feel convicted that potatoes - real potatoes, not the heinous sweet varietal - have saved my bacon this time around. It's like a whole other food group has been made available! (Hey, I'm Irish.)

So day 4, cravings are only minimal, and I have a decent amount of energy considering it's 3:45 pm right now. In about an hour I meet with Katie the thigh punisher, so I'll report back with any traumatic accidents involving my quads and the stairs. 

A quick menu recap: 

Breakfast: eggs with avocado and salsa

Snack: green apple with almond butter

Snack: (still breastfeeding, the proof is in the second snack...) handful of almonds and raisins 

Lunch: turkey rolled up in romaine leaves with mustard, raspberries

Snack: (DON'T YOU JUDGE ME) roasted golden potato cubes with olive oil

Dinner: Steak, bacon, roast brussels sprouts, green salad with o & v

Riveting content today. You're welcome!

7QT: training, nursing babies, and my new momiform

1. The momiform. Here 'tis, folks. At the tender age of 31, I think I've finally settled on a daily uniform that doesn't involve obvious amounts of spandex and/or sweat-wicking performance fabrics.

Flats, studs, skinnies, flowy top, repeat.

Optional seasonal mix ins to include scarves, riding boots and flip flops.

There. Done. Do I look like a grown up? I feel 100% better when I leave the house like this, and shockingly, I still manage to make it to the gym around 4 pm even when I don't strap on my workout gear first thing in the morning. Don't believe the lie, ladies, don't believe the lie...

2. I'm starting work with a personal trainer at said gym next week, 2x's weekly for one month. Inspired by Heather's fearsome results and hoping to do more to combat the chronic back pain that child bearing and child hauling seem to have sentenced me to, I've been promised big results. I tend to believe the spritely, 114 lb girl who will be training me, because she's really nice and has a blinged out miraculous medal ring on her finger, and because I fell down the stairs the day after our first 30 minute session because my thighs gave out. If you can make me fall down the stairs in muscle spasms, you have my business. I'll let you know how it goes.

3. Breastfeeding: the saga continues. Seriously, I had all but thrown in the burp cloth and had even sent a few SOS texts to Grace and to my bff Eliz (no blog, sadly) fabulous formula feeders both with big, healthy babes, and then I decided to try one last resort and scheduled a session with my friendly neighborhood lactation consultant Mariann (literally she's in my address book. Such dairy. So milk.) and what do you know, she told me that Evie might just be teething, that she's 8 months old and eating 3 squares of solids a day, and that if I wanted to keep nursing her I should go ahead and nurse her when I felt like it, as long as it was comfortable, and with the expectation that babies her age can take a full feeding in under 10 minutes. Also she told me to go ahead and use formula too, if it helped me.

What the what? I think the takeaway was that I'm the mom and can decide what's best for baby and me, both. Earth shattering.

Seriously though she's the most amazing woman, and she helped save breastfeeding for me not once but three times. So now Evie is happily snacking in limited amounts of time as long as she promises not to nibble or pull, and as soon as she starts misbehaving, pop goes the bottle in her mouth. Win/win. Oh, and a nightly Guiness is helping my supply recover from our hell week.

4. Which is not strictly Paleo, mind you. Okay it's not even loosely paleo, but my sister in law brought some for Dave's birthday last weekend and it's just taunting me from the fridge. Just like the Chicfila I served to "the kids" for lunch somehow ended up in my mouth, too. Oops.

5. On that note...starting a brand spanking new Whole 30 tomorrow. Why tomorrow? Why, because it's the beginning of Labor Day weekend! And won't it be fun to not eat any chips or buns or beer or cookies at any of the parties we'll be attending?

I figured it would be a good exercise in mental and physical discipline, you know? Because there's always a reason to cheat. Plus, I'm tired as hell every single day even though I'm not pregnant and I'm sleeping 8+ hours a night. Seriously I feel like death by 4 pm every day. I even tried a month of super expensive vitamins and supplements, to no avail. It's got to be the naughty nighties that have crept into my routine (ahem, Guiness. Chocolate that my boss left for the boys after a dinner party the other night (hi Uncle Ollie!) The insanely aromatic banana bread that our wonderful nanny baked with the kids yesterday afternoon.

But no more. I'm putting my foot down for a solid month. I figured that by synching up with my 4 weeks of training at the gym, I'll be giving my postpartum body the biggest push I can muster. Plus, once Fall begins in earnest, I tend to lose major health motivation in the face of an endless stream of holidays and birthdays. So it's now or never!

6. Haley's running a Whole 30 on the Carrot's Facebook page, but I don't know if I can access the closed group without a personal FB account, so I think I'll just troll along on my own. Anyone in? Solidarity?

7. I got nothing, 2/3rds of the household is now awake because their wildly optimistic mother put Evie down for her "morning" nap at 11 am and oops, there goes the afternoon edition. Oh, wait, there is this:

We met Matt Maher this week at a conference and he was gracious enough to take this very awkward photo with a very excited fan. (I am so stupid when I meet famous people. So stupid.) Anyway, I have loved his music for forever. Seriously he's one of the only Christian artists I like, and not just like, but absolutely adore. Speaking of that, he led worship for Adoration and it was beautiful. Real. Brought me back to Steubenville in a good way, in an honest and refreshing and unpretentious way.

Okay, duty calls. See you at Jen's.

p.s. we're not really doing school this year, per se, but this killed me.

PSA: mom jeans

... minus the mom jeans part.

But seriously, all ye of postpartum shape or anyone who would like to present the illusion of trim and toned to the outside world.

Pick yourself up a pair or two of these (at $25 bucks a pop, plus 30% online today, why not?) and cruise your way into fall looking like you worked out occasionally this summer.

You're welcome in advance.

(Trust me, your husbands will thank you.)

;)

Here's some in vivo evidence of the fit and stretch that will rock your world.

Srsly, they feel like yoga pants that hug you back, are appropriate for public use, and button right smack dab over your deflated belly button. Perfection.

7 Quick takes: sibling harmony, Whole 30 in real life, and a 180 on schooling choices

Welcome, Friday. You are most welcome here, indeed.

(Linking up with Jen, who spotted a very sweet photo-bomber in our picture of a group of us taking a picture.)

1. All my kids are playing together. I'm sitting mere feet from them on the couch, minding my own business and click clacking away and so far (knock on a timber-filled forest) nobody has asked me for anything for the past 5 minutes. Is this the mythical light at the end of the tunnel I've heard so much about? Play on, small people. I'll just be over here not touching or being touched by anyone. ThankyouJesus.

2. I woke up before the boys this morning and, rather than rolling over and going an extra 45 in dreamland, I got up like an adult and drank my coffee and ate my loathsome eggs and as a result, I haven't spent the first half of the day feeling like a hungover servant with a persecution complex. It's fantastic. We've been to the gym, I've mopped all the floors, and lunch has already been served and eaten. 

3. Oh, speaking of food...well, this happened last night.

And while I'd normally be wallowing in my perceived failure (and possibly some sea salt dark chocolate almonds) instead I'm just savoring the delicious memory and eating paleo today like it never happened. I mean, I suppose my cravings are a tad stronger because of my dalliance with MSG, but it's fine and more than that, it's realistic. A friend and I are both making a big effort to shed our baby weight and are using similar means to get there, along with texting each other for support and accountability. After hearing her plan to eat very similarly but to incorporate one "cheat meal" into her week, I decided to do the same because it's brilliant! And it's realistic, as it allows for life to happen. Got a party to attend or a big feast day to celebrate? Enter the cheat meal. It feels very balanced.

4. I weighed in on Monday and was deliriously happy to see that I'm down 11 lbs overall, and I've lost 6.5 inches total since we began less than a month ago. This is with a healthy amount of the above-mentioned cheating, nothing more strenuous than walking (though I'm logging a minimum of 4 miles per day) and a whole lot of eggs. And lettuce. I'll take it.

5. Fall is coming. Yesterday I was at my parent's house and my mom lit a pumpkin spice candle and I almost sprouted riding boots and a patterned scarf just from inhaling the aroma. Hold me back. Helpfully for my restraint, it's still 85 degrees here and I bought the kids a slip n slide off the clearance rack at Target. Because back to school shopping has trumped the thermometer, and all the beach gear is 50% off.

6. Speaking of back to school, guess who's not going back to school? Yeah, us. Despite years of protest and a firm belief in my own mental deficiency in pretty much anything math or science related, I've decided to try my hand at pre-schooling Joey at home this year. We really liked our parish school and he mostly liked being there, but I couldn't quite get the hand of the driving thing. 40 minutes in the car twice a day for a 2.5 hour program was a bit excessive. 

My other motivator was the fact that, despite having been in the classroom for 5 months (January-May) his end of year report indicated that he had zero letter or number recognition. Zilch. Nada. Naturally, my very measured reaction to this information was unbridled panic and the assumption of massive learning disabilities and cognitive delays. Never mind that he was the youngest child in his classroom, that he possesses the vocabulary of a 50 year old man, and can operate every electronic device in our house with aplomb. I panicked and dropped like $30 on alphabet magnets, bathtub letters and flashcards but what do you know, after a summer home with me, he can count, do some basic adding and subtracting, and knows a whole bunch of letters by sight. We just started working with this book this week, per the recommendation of several homeschooling moms I know, so we'll see what kind of progress we can make. He pretty much hates it so far, so I'm thinking he's either not ready or I need to break the lessons in half? Idk, completely blindsided by this plot twist.

7. And that $2,000 we'll be saving on preschool this year? I'm thinking of spending it entirely on babysitting and tequila. Happy weekend!

Whole30: the halfway point

Or at least it would have been, had I not dove headfirst into a seemingly endless stream of margaritas which doth flow like water in Austin. The very best one was had at the Iron Cactus on 6th street, but the $13 version on the roof of the Omni was, surprisingly, a close second, plastic cup notwithstanding.

So the Whole30 rests on the premise of total and complete abstinence from the forbidden categories: dairy, grains, sugar and, alas, alcohol. Since I consumed every one of those items in Texas last weekend, I am technically aaaaaaaall the way back at the starting point. Think of it as a culinary game of chutes and ladders...

Anyway, I feel awful from the cheats, and not in a guilty sort of way, but in a physically uggggggh sort of way. Two-and-a-half weeks without sugar makes reentry very, very painful. And if anything, the cravings are worse following a clean diet, but only for the first 24 hours or so. Does that make sense?

This morning is the first morning since last Thursday (the beginning of my sugar bender) that I haven't woken up feeling more dead than alive. This morning, it was about 50/50.

Here's what's been on the menu today:

Breakfast: black Americano, 4 banana 'pancakes' (I whip mine up in the blender and add a little liquid stevia, some cinnamon and some vanilla extract), and a handful of raspberries and blueberries. Waaaaaaay too much sugar (even the "legit" variety) for a true Whole30 breakfast, but I'm telling you these cravings are fierce.

Lunch: half a cucumber, handful of cherries, homemade guacamole, 6 slices of "clean" salami (is that even a thing?) and a bizarrely hued white carrot. Oh gosh, and the Pellegrino. I've been using at least a bottle per day; it's an expensive hydration option. Cheaper than wine, though.

I'll probably walk 3 miles on the treadmill tonight after the kiddos are abed. I've found that regular conscious effort in the activity department + 3 miles of walking add up to 10,000 steps, so that has been my default number to hit when I do have to do the kind of walking that takes place indoors.

So there's my update. Technically I have to start over counting from this past Monday, and seeing as how incredible the preliminary results were, I think I just may. August 27th, I'm looking at you...

How hating eggs is healing my relationship with food

(To be clear, I understand that food is an inanimate object and, as such, is not capable of sustaining the  aforementioned relationship. Bear with me, this goes somewhere, I promise.)

Just sitting around the homestead this afternoon pounding hardboiled egg and cucumbers for the least-satisfying lunch you could possibly imagine.

We're on day 11 of our latest venture down Paleo row and I have to confess: it's wearing on me. What I'm wearing, however, is falling off me, so I feel I have no choice but to continue this bold adventure into the land of previously unpronounceable vegetables and mineral water. And eggs. Oh so many eggs.

Here's a word to the wiser; if you're going to adopt thee most expensive nutritional lifestyle du jour, be sure you check out your bank account and then cross-reference it with the going rate for grass fed beef in your neck of the notfarmland, because if you don't have a 4 digit grocery budget, you are going to be dwelling for the next month in a special place I'd like to call poultry purgatory. Do you like eggs? You do? That's nice. I bet you like scrambled eggs with a little cheese on top and a side of buttery toast with a nice foamy latte on the side. And maybe even jam.  Now take away the butter, the toast, the jam, and the milk in that latte, and you have a perfectly Paleo breakfast! You could even add some banana-flavored eggs on the side.

Do you get the sense of desperation in my menu? Do you have a good sense for the quiet dread I feel when I step into the grocery store, knowing that for an additional 19 days I'll be circling the perimeter  loading up on meat, raw nuts, coconut milk, green things, and dozens upon dozens of eggs? Let me be clear: Trader Joe's is not any fun right now. Not any fun at all. But just as I was gearing up to write this whiney whine of a post about how much I wanted to chuck this whole experiment and drown my sorrows in a giant glass of prosecco, I decided I'd better do a quick weight and measurement check, just for posterity's sake, you know?

My clothes are definitely fitting looser and I have decidedly more energy in the mornings, which is a nice change from silently begging to be knocked unconscious when Joey busts in at o'dark thirty demanding cereal and cold milk. Always with the cold milk. Never lukewarm. So I hopped on the scale to sneak a peak at what all this paleo-ing and walking has accomplished thus far, and my eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

Because 6.5 lbs. In 11 days. Eating entire fistfuls of guacamole and sides of cows and more almonds and eggs and glugs of olive oil than you could shake a strip of bacon at. (And plenty of that too, by the way) And yet there it was, the irrefutable proof on the digital readout that this is working, and that, hard as it is to admit on a 90-degree day which just begs for a Corona with lime, this is so worth it.

I busted out the tape measure just to see if there was any movement on those numbers too, and behold, my wasted waistline is an entire inch and a half trimmer. In less than 2 weeks. I feel like I could have visibly observed the shrinkage if I had been paying close enough attention. I'm shocked.  Happy shocked, for sure. But also kind of appalled by how simple it really was to finally get that number moving in the right direction. Because for as much of my life as I can remember, I've struggled with my weight.

When I was 120 lbs and swimming competitively in high school, I struggled with my weight. When I was 50 lbs heavier and battling a severe eating disorder and binge drinking every night of the week in college, I struggled with my weight. When I was a healthy 135 and walking down the aisle in my beautiful wedding dress, I struggled with my weight. And when I was a first-time mom riding a desk full-time and pounding cheezits to keep the nausea at bay while close to 60 lbs packed themselves onto my petite frame, I struggled with my weight.

It's been a lifelong struggle, but for me, the real battle hasn't been with my own body or how I happened to be naturally shaped, but with food itself. Food has never been simply a nourishment and a gift, it has always felt more like a curse, like an abusive friendship that offers false comfort and momentary happiness but then talks about you behind your back and maybe steals your boyfriend. I am, and have been, I can now say pretty confidently, addicted to the use of food as a coping mechanism or comforter. I hesitate to say addicted to food itself because, well, it's kind of necessary to survival and intrinsically good. But have I been treating it right? Have I been using it as God designed and intended?

Decidedly, no.

So I'm putting this out there for a couple reasons. Accountability, sure, but also because I want to be able to look back and pinpoint where and when it was that I finally in some infinitesimally small way began to see the light about this. I also don't think I'm alone in this. And while I don't think that the world is populated exclusively by chubby young mothers who bury their feelings of angst and stress in a box of sea-salt almonds and red wine, (disclaimer, I do not drink boxed wine. Only boxed almonds) I do think that there are lots of different people who struggle similarly in their relationship with the inanimate objects in their refrigerators.

I think that there are probably plenty of skinny people who have the same struggle and perhaps just don't wear it as apparently around their waistline. And I think there are lots of perfectly average-sized people who would love to feel control around a buffet table at a party or on a date at a Mexican restaurant while facing down a bottomless chip basket, feeling like that thing in the middle of the table has way more control over them then it should (and, coincidentally, way more of their attention than the person sitting across the table from them.

This Whole30 has been my most successful "diet" attempt in years, and I'm not sure why that is, but I'm so grateful. I'm grateful for the space that has cleared in my head (and yes, around my love handles) and for the growing sense of detachment I'm experimenting at meal times and in-between times, because the only thing more exhausting than chasing around 3 little kids all day while trying to make room for prayer, work, exercise and all else that life demands is to do all that while thinking constantly of the next thing you're going to eat (or not eat) or what you're going to treat yourself with once bedtime rolls around because it was a hard day and you earned it and you ran 3 miles, after all.

With the exception of the mileage logged, none of those circumstances actually have any bearing on what one ought to put in one's mouth next, and yet I've lived for years going from "treat" to "reward" to "indulgence" in a vicious cycle of craving and resisting and giving in, handing over a part of my autonomy and, with it, my dignity for the momentary comfort of a feeling of satiation.

No more.

I'm not pledging my allegiance to a lifelong regimen of hard-boiled eggs because oh my gosh they are sick, cage-free or no.

But I am planting my flag here in this soil and claiming this little bit of peace as mine. And as much as I love the taste of salt and vinegar kettle chips after a long day of teething babies and missed deadlines, the happiness is fleeting and the sense of comfort is short lived, followed by a much deeper sense of shame and regret.

Food is good, and celebrating with food and drink is natural and healthy. Making food the source of goodness, however, and going to it for reward and comfort and distraction, feels more like slavery.

While the self-imposed rules of this month of eating a certain way are constricting, I feel more free within the framework of this Whole30 than I've felt in a very long time, culinarily speaking. Maybe the absence of sugar has killed the strongest of the cravings, or maybe I'm just getting a long-overdue look at what life without food as comforter and reward looks like. And it feels liberating.

You're my best friend, internet

Well, maybe not the internet per se in its vast, personless impersonality, but you all, gentle readers, are absolutely top notch.

Thank you thank you thank you to to the moon and back for all the comments you left on yesterday's only a little bit pathetic post. Truly made a mother's day. I think yesterday afternoon through tonight were the very finest hours we've spent nursing, Evie and I, because for the first time since she got here, I wasn't worrying about her size and how much she was consuming. It was nice. So thank you for that.

Thank you especially for the side-by-side comparisons of different sized kids from the same families and for kids who switched between breast and formula and didn't cause a blip on the 'ol growth chart. I really didn't want to stop nursing her, but I was starting to wonder if I was causing her to suffer or endangering her future development or compromising her chances of making a good match later in life or...well you get the picture.

Love letter, over and out.

Oh! But I just remembered, I have another reason to smooch the web, and it's because thanks to your savvy suggestions, I asked for and have indeed received promise of a shiny new FitBit. It will be here tomorrow. Much excitement. Many pounds displaced. So technology.

Finally, now that I can be sure it's going to stick, I'm on day 7 of another Whole 30. Remember how the last one ended up? Yeah, we named her Genevieve. (Note: I'm not insinuating that the Whole 30 program leads to pregnancy, only that I happened to discover we were pregnant on about day 11 of our last attempt, and thus crashed and burned in savory flames of Nutella and Italian sour cream and onion Pringles.)

But anyway, day 7. One week in. And it isn't terrible! I mean how can bacon wrapped dates ever be terrible? Okay, the no booze part is kind of terrible, but on the plus side (hopefully not the plus size) I'm so very clear headed and chipper in the mornings now. Do you know how much damage a single (ahem, healthy) glass of red wine in the evening does to a 31-year-old body upon waking the next morning? Lots, it turns out. But I digress.

My goal for this Whole 30 is simple: I want a healthier relationship with food. I want to lose the rest of my "baby weight," and I don't want to wake up every morning wishing to be knocked unconscious.  Also, I may have been tremendously inspired by Heather's transformative efforts in the health and wellness department. Also, I bought some million dollar vitamins from a friend last month and am hoping to boost their magical powers.

With that I'll bid you all a fond adieu and be off to the basement to my newly-relocated treadmill of delight. With this on my Kindle (it's less than $5 right now!), because Jen said so.

7QT: Unaccompanied minors, amazing customer service, and why my hideous redecoration of our little-used living room has me smiling so big

1. You know who's awesome lately? The customer service industry. Or rather, two particular companies (FitBit and Timi & Leslie) which have been completely and utterly surprising in their responsiveness and kindness to a poor customer in need of service.

Exhibit A:

My beautiful diaper bag, purchased in a fit of hormonal indulgence at 37 weeks with Evie. I get compliments on its beauty at least twice a week, and nobody ever suspects it's a diaper bag. But the material is pulling at this one teeny corner of the notleather and I was saddened and surprised. My last T&L bag lasted me 2 years, including one spent trotting back and forth to Italy, with no such signs of stress. I emailed the company, the asked for my receipt and a picture of the offending corner, and bada bing, a brand new bag is coming my way and I get to keep the "old" one. Sadly they have discontinued the color I loved and purchased it for, so it turns out my lucky little sister is probably the one getting a new diaper bag out of this situation, because none of these really struck my fancy. Shhhh.

2. I've also got an email in to the good peeps at FitBit, thanks to your lovely suggestions, and I'm feeling pretty optimistic about that whole situation, too. The week of retail redemption is at hand!

3. I'm getting so excited to meet all my Edel girls in just 2 short weeks! I'm also kind of in denial that I'm going to be getting a weekend "off," albeit with a baby in hand and a mic in the other, but hey, one can't accurately call any sort of trip a vacation once offspring have sprung, am I right?

4. I have gone ballistic decorating and rearranging my house ever since the Nesting Place burned up my Kindle a few weeks back, thanks to Jen's recommendation. Steph says it well when she identified it as a shot of decorating heroin to the vein, or something along those lines.

Anywho, I've got a happy new edition resting comfortably in our living room that goes absolutely not at all with anything decor related, and yet when I behold its ugliness I smile to myself and whisper inaudibly It doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful. But what about the opposing corollary, it doesn't have to be beautiful to be perfect? Copyrighting it.

Definitely not feng shui. And yet, perfect...

5. So yeah, I finally pulled my itching trigger finger on a Craigslist treadmill at long last after walking into the feral kid's club at our gym Tuesday morning to retrieve my rat pack and had a few moments during which I could not locate the youngest member. Not in the stroller I'd wheeled in, not in the caretaker's arms...oh, there she is... sitting on the bottom level of the soft play structure IN THE ARMS OF A RANDOM 5-YEAR-OLD GIRL. Just to clarify, my 6 month old daughter, who cannot sit up, was being held by a strange child. The daycare worker happily fetched the baby along with her accompanying brothers while my normally confrontational self stared dumbly, accepted the compromised baby without a word. (Don't worry, I picked my jaw up off the floor and called the front desk after I got home. But still.) Needless to stay, Evie's kid's club days are over until she turns 4 or gains 20 lbs, whichever happens first.

6. I just finished reading C.S. Lewis' Perelandra for perhaps the seventh time, but definitely the first time in several years, and I had forgotten how utterly astonishing it is, how deeply spiritual and how moving, and how very good fiction is for the soul. I'm all about memoirs, DIY manifestos and self-helping manuals, but once it a while it's just so good to get lost in another world. (Thus far in my literary life, only C.S. Lewis and Michael O'Brien have the capacity to move me on a deep spiritual level, but I'm always open to suggestions.) Perelandra is the kind of book that will, quite unassumingly, cause you to set it down and momentarily lose yourself in contemplation of the nature of God. And it is most definitely not what one would traditionally call spiritual reading. It's beautiful, captivating and engaging prose of the first degree.

7. I have a problem with terrible music. The problem is, I like it. The corollary problem is that my 3-year-old son sometimes asks me to sing "every word to the airplane song for me, Mommy." and then I can't. Because adult themes and language. At least he's not into Ke$ha. Yet.

See you at Jen's place?

Won't *something* wreck our bodies eventually?

Ah, summertime...when a young (or old) mom's fancy turns to thoughts of swim suits. Or at least mine does. Now I'm a lifelong swimmer. 9 competitive seasons under my belt and countless stints on the lifeguard stand. I'm actually less traumatized in the fitting room by swimwear than by any pair of jeans I've tried in the last 4 years. I guess it's like a second skin for me, in a very real sense. And nobody's skin is perfect, you know?

But I know for lots of people, especially mom-shaped people, swimsuit shopping is thee worst. On par with dentistry and public speaking and unmedicated birthing and all manner of horrors (not judging any dentists, conference speakers or natural birthers here. Just identifying usual suspects of terror).

I'm sure everyone has read at least one piece this summer (see what I did there?) extolling the virtue of just putting on the damn suit and jumping in the water, and that's all true and good. Some writers reasoned it is for our children's sakes that we ought to suit up and get to splashing. Others insist that our bodies are made for more than just lookin' good (don't I know it) and that doing it for the kids indicates that there is some kind of aesthetic nose-holding going on and that we really need to be more comfortable with whatever shape we're in, and not endlessly consumed by some sisyphian quest to alter it. I can see both sides.

And then some of us - some of us just want to be left alone, both by the mirror and by the assessing eyes of the general public. Sure, it'd be nice to look toned and tanned in a two piece, and sure, it'd be great to have sand as the primary irritant of water play and not the arduous ascent of one's bottoms to one's waist once wet.

All this talk of spandex got me thinking. And now that I'm walking roughly 5 miles a day, I have a lot more time for thinking lately, even when I'm pushing and hauling child tonnage around the neighborhood. So I was wearing Evie, pushing the boys and sweating my literal ass off and smiling at the thought of that metaphor becoming sweet reality and it suddenly, startlingly occurred to me that no matter how great of shape the miles I'm logging gets me into, the inevitable ravages of time and work and (hopefully) future pregnancies and nursing are still going to destroy things, aesthetically speaking.

This has occurred to me before on some level. Earlier this year when I was still wearing workout clothes day and night and chugging aqua from my hospital-issued jug, my little sister helpfully (and fraternally, if a sister can speak in such a manner) pointed out that I wasn't getting any younger (and, presumably, any hotter) so I may as well get dressed and put on makeup, no matter how rough I felt, because there truly is no time aside from the present that we have to actually live in our bodies.

Now maybe you don't wear makeup. That's fine! I don't wear a ton, but I find that on the days I go further than my spf tinted moisturizer, blush/bronzer and eyebrow filling, I feel markedly better. Even with the same amount of sleep/coffee. There's something very life-giving for me about getting dressed, albeit in very simple, preppy clothes, and swiping on a bit of mascara. It helps me take my job more seriously as a mother, and it helps me present a more joyful persona to the general public.

All that is good, and it's helpful for me to be aware of the tone I set for our day with my level of self care. I also think it's a bit of a witness to not present to the outside world the shrewing, frantic mess I am on the inside, lest they feel confirmed in their suspicions that having children is a hell of a lot of work which daily sucks the marrow from your very bones.

But you know what else sucks the marrow from your bones? I mean, aside from being bone-marrow donor, which would be an excellent practical application of life-giving love.

Life. The ravages of time. Pulling all nighters for work (or for partying). Traveling the globe. Digging ditches. Landing contracts. Getting on and off of highway exits. Gravity. Gluten.

Whatever it is you're spending your time (your body's time, too, because you are your body) doing, it's undoing you. Piece by piece, wrinkle by wrinkle, cell by cell. It's all breaking down, even as we're busy building up a life for ourselves. And the only thing any of us are going to have to show for it, in the end, is a laundry list of accomplishments or failures. And I think relationships will be at the top of the laundry list.

It's comforting to me, not in a sadistic way but in a serene and pragmatic way, to think that no matter what, 50 years from now, if I'm still chilling in my mortal form, I'll look pretty much like old lady in the Denny's booth next to mine. Okay maybe I'll have a tad more sun damage, but at 81 years old, I don't think anyone will be counting my sunspots and wrinkling their already wrinkled nose over it.

So no matter what choices I make now, my body is going to look pretty much the same. I mean, maybe I will score some additional longevity if I eat well and stay active, but no amount of starvation dieting or pinning miracle smoothies or popping birth control pills to keep my waistline trim and my bank account plump is going to make me any better looking, in the end.

So while I feel very acutely that I am quite literally spending myself for the sake of my children, I struggle to identify another, worthier cause in which to invest.

Our culture is obsessed with becoming - and remaining - thin. With appearing more beautiful. With capturing and domesticating youth, both in appearance and in behavior. But it's all fleeting. And truly, there is nothing sadder than a 60-year-old man or woman dressing down by 3 or 4 decades, desperately striving to appear relevant. Desirable. Loved.

But what about the 60-year-old who is desired, deeply, by her husband? By his children? By her friends and co-workers?

What about the person who has invested deeply, not in himself (though there's nothing wrong with self investment, rightly-ordered) but in the relationships which are the very essence of life? How good will that feel, to be fading into antiquity as we all do, but to be very much unforgettable to the children you've raised, the spouse you've loved faithfully, the friends you've nurtured, the lives you've spent your own on?

There is no original thought here, just the arresting realization that it's all passing away, and that no matter how much I might want to look like another body, I'm in this one, and I'm the only one who can choose how I'll use it, how I'll spend myself.

Our culture tells us that to spend a life in service to another is a waste. To give up one's very body in bearing and nurturing life is obscene, is antithetical to real happiness.

I beg to differ. I look down at my soft, motherly midsection and I know that while it's hard to give up the body I once had, we're all asked, each of us, to surrender the goods eventually.

The only real question is, will you give it away, or will it be taken from you by force?

I choose life. I choose to give it away. It's a small cross, and it's marred by stretch marks and double digits in the denim department, but I won't be any more beautiful in 50 years for refusing it.

In fact, in embracing the cross of life, I might just guarantee beauty beyond all comprehension.

Walk Your Buns Off

I was at Starbucks this morning (don't judge, it was actually my first foray into the green lady's lair since our April trek to Rome) with all three kiddos in tow, the youngest specimen strapped securely to my torso, when I sat down next to a spritely blonde on a laptop who looked not too unkindly at her suddenly less than serene mobile office space and smiled at the boys, each sucking greedily on a $4 carton of organic free range cane-sugared chocolate milk. Turning to me she raised an eyebrow and made the usual "you must be busy" chit chat before leaning it conspiratorially and confiding to me that "You look pretty good for three kids!"

To which I chuckled heartily before replying, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Actually I grimaced and made some comment about walking instead of driving to the 'Bucks because sustainability! (Actually, because it kills 40 minutes of my morning and the commute is excellent fodder for my latest venture: the Walkoff of 2014.)

About 3 weeks ago Dave and I, while sorrowfully contemplating our matching American paunches, made a steely resolve to do!something!about it! But this time was different; instead of embarking on yet another quest to eat the method du jour and thereby once and for all solve all our weighty woes, we instead thought back to a time when our bodies were in decent shape, we felt good, and we had a decent amount of energy, small children notwithstanding.

Bing bing bing! Italy. With it's non-GMO produce, piles of pasta drenched in butter and cream sauces, rivers flowing with chianti and, perhaps most importantly, millions of miles of walkable streets. Ha. Walkable. As in, there's so much freaking humanity crammed into a space designed 2,000 years ago, you're better off hoofing it if you need to get, well, anywhere. 

Plus, when we lived there, we didn't have a car.

We had this amazing stroller, which is still sitting pretty in my garage as I live and type, and we had 2/3 of the children we currently possess, and so every day I dutifully put the two together and strode about the city, stopping intermittently for the most incredible coffees and pastries and never giving 2 shots of espresso about what I was putting into my body, at least for the most part. And I looked good.

Even when we got pregnant with Evie, I didn't gain a single lb until week 21 rolled around, which is unimaginable with my gestational history. It was magical. And, until now, we couldn't really figure out how to replicate it Stateside.

Dave and I scratched our heads, looked in our mirrors, and decided that while Trader Joe's could only take us so far in the unprocessed foods department, the 45 minutes we were each putting in on the elliptical nightly probably weren't cutting it in the phys ed department. Suddenly I remembered reading about how Anne or Jen had mentioned their love affairs with movement-tracking devices and I knew, I just knew this was the magical key we sought. I did 3 minutes of research and then downloaded the Pacer app on both our iPhones and suddenly we were off to the races: the spouse with the most steps tallied in 4 weeks wins $100, and mommy gets to buy herself some hot jeans.

Simple.

Except it hasn't been entirely simple. I mean okay, it has been simple, but it hasn't been easy. First of all I was way overestimating how much movement I was getting in a day. 10,000 steps (the recommended amount for optimal health) a day? Pshhht. I've got 3 babies and we live in Colorado, we're active, I've got this.

Except nope, I didn't. In fact, the first day I tracked my steps I was shocked to find myself stalled out in the mid-3,000s come dinnertime. But, but, how could this be? I'm so busy!

And I was busy, but I wasn't moving nearly enough to impact my health or my waistline. So the app.

Here are the pros: it holds us accountable. Some days the competition is downright fierce as the texts fly back and forth;  6,555...6933...8990....12044 even, one day! It's super motivating for both of us to have a direct competitor taunting us, encouraging us, egging us on; it's effective. Some concrete examples: I park as far as I can away from wherever I'm going in the lot, I walk around the house constantly, choosing to do one thing at a time rather than doing a whole bunch of streamlined tidying, just so I can get more steps. I run up and down the basement stairs to the laundry with small armfuls of folded clothes instead of one basket with everything in it. And, if all else fails, I hit the gym in the evening to make up the difference.

The cons: it's not cool to have your phone literally touching you all day long. I'm sure I could buy an armband thing or figure out a more sophisticated carrying solution, but right now I either tuck it facet under my sports bra shoulder strap (breast cancer) or tuck it into the waistband of my gym shorts at my side (love handle cancer?). Neither is ideal, but in order to track my steps, it has to be able to feel me stepping, if that makes sense. I think either a fitbit or a jawbone (hint, hint, darling) would solve this problem marvelously; it's also sometimes a huuuuuuuge pain to take the child herd on yet another walk or to do something so ridiculous as walking to a suburban coffee shop, because the looks you get strolling down that busy intersection. Sheesh.

It's also really, admittedly tough to live a pedestrian-centric (is that a word? totally not a word) lifestyle in a auto-centric culture. This morning's foray to Starbucks, for example, less than 1.5 miles down the road from mi casa, but nevertheless a place I'd never normally walk to. And for my office-bound desk jockey of a husband, it's been really tough for him to get his 10,000 steps in unless he hits the gym in the evening for a little quality time with the treadmill.

Some other walking hacks we've been incorporating to hit that magical 10K mark: walking 'meetings' or phone calls, nightly or morning walks to a nearby park, circling the kids playground area at the park like a shark mother, looking only ever-so-slightly like a lunatic in so doing, and trying to replace sedentary activities (netflix binges, internet trolling in the evenings) with active ones.

Overall it's been way, way effective in keeping us on the move and trimming down. And the best part? I'm down like an entire pants size and I've lost a couple pounds, too. But more than that I'm starting to look like myself again, and not some fluffy postpartum caricature of the ghost of Jenny past. And between you and me?

I don't look half bad for having had 3 kids. 

Wink.

(Oh, and for posterity's sake, here's a poorly-lit selfie of today, 3 weeks into these shenanigans. Evie will be 6 months old on Sunday, just for reference.)