Not the rest of the birth story
I was approached by a maternity fitness company before I had Max about the possibility of trying out a postpartum band that holds together your abdominal muscles so that they heal in the correct position. The band also comes with an online course for “core restrengthening” starting around 6 weeks postpartum. I took them up on the offer because, let’s face it, I wasn’t going to be doing any fitness otherwise, and I figured this would be a good motivator to get back into shape. Or into shape for the first time? Oh, let’s not split hairs.
The band is not all that uncomfortable (it suggests you wear it “during the day” which I would argue is a lot longer at this time of year than say, December, but whatevs.) but dude, it is like putting saran wrap around your belly and standing on the sun. I sweat. And sweat some more. And then after some nice, long sweating, I sweat. It’s gross.
Especially on days when Max is fussy/I have lots of kids needing lots of kid things/I’m tired/It’s over 80 degrees (every day) wearing the band makes me want to murder people. This is probably not good, right? I won’t say that in the review, though. I guess. I’m anticipating a Jillian Michaels-like midsection for all the bother. Homicidal, but steely-abbed: me in a nutshell.
My sister got us Netflix for the duration of my maternity leave (and somehow scored an extension until November yesssss) and so I have been solidly making my way through many hours of mindless television (and not-so-mindless: Friday Night Lights, I recommend it.) But one thing I discovered amidst my perusing was stand up comedy. Totally awesome for the fuss-sessions where I am bouncing Max in the wrap, not as great for nursing, as it makes for some jiggly meals for the baby. Louis CK, especially, brings on the milkshakes. (Womp.) But seriously, have you seen his stuff? This one is the best.
King of the Wild Things
Max continues to improve in the being-upset department, but it’s still kind of a slog some nights, filled with walking and bouncing and burping and walking and walking. I call it colic most of the time, though I always hope that I’m really just being overly dramatic, and that he’s really just a little pissed off and will be totally over it in a minute. In the meantime, he continues to be dedicated in his displays of furrowed brow tiny guy consternation.
Photo by L, who will totally not let it go if I don’t tell you that.