I weighed myself this morning, right after eating three poppyseed muffins and right before stepping into the shower to wash off the crumbs (and two other days accumulation of crumbs... sometimes you just don't have time or energy to shower). Apparently, I've lost four pounds in the six weeks since I've started to do any form of exercise. I guess this is progress, but I don't really measure my progress by my weight. I'm more concerned with minimizing the muffin top that springs up over my jeans which I refuse to replace with a larger size. But seeing the number did inspire me to try on my skinny jeans (which are size 11- long gone are the days of fitting into the size 4 Arden B's that, yes, are still in my closet). I couldn't button the size 11, so I went back into my "other" jeans which, oddly enough, are size 8. Got to love women's sizing.
Just for the record, I blame my husband for all of this.
I know all of this squeezing into jeans would not be necessary if we'd followed the advice of my doctor way back when. And by doctor, I mean my Ob/Gyn. When I was pregnant with Micah this doctor, who I loved, informed me that my labor and delivery and post-pregnancy weight loss would all go much smoother if I had a lot of sex while pregnant. She also suggested this in order to speed up my going into labor. I was well into my third trimester at this point and, dealing with some erratic pregnancy hormones, was ready to do anything to make this baby come on schedule. Therefore, I thought this was pretty good advice. My husband, sitting next to me in the examination room, did not. You see, she said this moments after withdrawing her fingers from my "examination" and exclaiming "I can feel the baby's head!". The look on JMahl's face said it all: If she can feel the baby's head with her three inch long fingers, then you better believe I'll be able to feel the baby's head with my ________ inch long _______.
I knew at that point that I wasn't going to be having any sex for the next few months. Granted, it's probably my own fault. You see, I took it upon myself after Kolbie was born and JMahl noticed the dent on her head to tell him exactly why that dent was there. (Yes, it was there with the other two- and pretty much all babies the world over, but for some reason he didn't notice it until Kolbie-- maybe because it took him three babies to feel comfortable holding one?)
And, maybe it was post-partum hormones, or my sick sense of humor, but, well, yes, you can figure out pretty easily exactly what I told him.
Granted, it's not as though he was dying to have sex with me when I was nine months pregnant with Kolbie-- nor was I dying for that either. Those women who say they loved sex while pregnant, well, that wasn't me. And I know there's a big porn base that supports this as well, but again, not me. My husband did try to convince me that the benefits of sex could be obtained via oral transmission (ahhem), but I'm not quite as gullible as he, so that idea fell through the cracks. And for those of you who may be offended by that comment, hey, we're married, and it's not like any 9 month pregnant woman is sticking with straight missionary position. Missionary position while 9 months pregnant is like trying to sink a putt with a yoga ball covering the hole. But when desperate to try anything to go into labor (which pretty much all women are at 9 months), a pregnant woman will muster up what energy, imagination, and endurance she has and give it a valiant effort. So, at least with Kolbie, I got "some loving" while pregnant, even if we had to be inventive. But between my (somewhat sick) explanation of Kolbie's fontanel and my doctor's excited discovery of the baby's dropping, well, my chances to get nine month pregnant sex were shot.
But my joke post-Kolbie's birth completely backfired on me after Micah was born since JMahl, refusing to lay so much as a finger anywhere near where the baby's head may or may not feel it, was not pleased to find a rather large, very soft dent on top of Micah's head. I had a lot of explaining to do. Luckily, I had my Doctor nearby to verify that I was, in fact, telling the truth.
But, long story short, that explains why all of this is my husband's fault. Or maybe it's mine.