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?

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.

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.)