Learning To Wear Pants Again

There's nothing worse than shopping for a pair of jeans. That's why, when you find "the ones", the ones that fit like a dream and make you forget about every flaw beneath them, you buy them - you covet them - and you wear the what out of them.

This is precisely what I did with my maternity jeans and essentially what I do with every new accessory or article of clothing I acquire.

As a general rule though, I only like to hang on to a pair of jeans until they've fallen apart, until they've weathered six seasons, or until I'm brave enough to look for a new pair, whichever comes first. That said, when the elastic waist went in my maternity jeans after only a few months, I took them to a seamstress for "reinforcing" and prided myself on my frugality. 

But when two of my girlfriends announced their pregnancies and, upon probing, that neither of them were wearing maternity clothes, I realized that I was in my fourth post-pregnancy trimester and still sporting mine.

Shortly afterwards, I also realized that my maternity jeans had already seen two falls and two winters and were very close to seeing two springs. Their shelf life (or leg life, so to speak) was coming to an end. In fact, it should have come to an end months ago based on the simple fact that I was no longer pregnant. But I just wasn't ready to let them go. They had literally been with me through thick and thinner. When I gained 50-plus pounds during my pregnancy, those jeans still fit like a dream. And when I lost 35 of those 50-plus pounds after Elizabeth was born, those jeans still made me forget about every flaw beneath them, which now included a five-inch Caesarian scar and a so-called kangaroo pouch.

The time had come for me to either swallow my pride and buy a pair of Size 12s (I could only hope) or try on my "old" (non-maternity) jeans and hope for the best. And because spending money when I'm not making any is a lot more difficult than I imagined it to be, I opted for the latter.

So one morning, sitting on the fence between optimism and pessimism, yet fully prepared for an emotional meltdown, I took a trip to the pre-pregnancy side of my closet. I was pleasantly shocked. Not only had I managed to squeeze into my beloved, discounted Anthropologie jeans, but I had also managed to button and zip them up with minimal discomfort, meaning minimal "muffin-top". It was a good day, muffin-top and all.

Soon after though, I realized I had a problem. And it wasn't getting my jeans on. It was taking them off that was raising some red flags. When nature called, I found myself trying to pull my jeans down over my hips, just like I had done with my maternity jeans. I had actually forgotten how to wear pants, or at least how to take them off. I had been conditioned to completely disregard the existence of two universal facets of the pant: the button and the zipper.

There are many things I prepared myself for as a new mom. Learning to wear pants again wasn't one of them. And so, as Elizabeth is learning to do "big-girl" things, so am I. And like most of the waves that motherhood brings, you just have to learn to ride them, even if doing so means (almost) getting your pants wet. Lucky for me, skirt season is just around the corner!

Reflections Of Previous Posts

Elizabeth is one. And I am still Lorazepam-free. (But a note to parents: If you think you worry too much, just watch five minutes of Bubble Wrap Kids. I guarantee, you'll be singing your own praises!)

Abby went to live on a farm. (No, not that kind of farm. You know, the one your parents told you "Lucky" went when you were a kid.) I managed to keep it together until the moment she was walked out the door and I closed it behind her. And then I broke down. As I put her beds away, I sobbed. As I swept away the excessive traces of her fur, I sobbed. I felt like I had failed her. And I'm sure there are many pet-enthusiasts out there who would agree. But in many ways, my failures as a pet-owner are my successes as a parent. And that's indisputable. 

I still haven't started Lost, but I do think I've finally managed to defeat this cold/cold/flu thing. One of the unfortunate side effects of this latest kick to my immune system was having to forfeit my scheduled day at Ste. Anne's Spa last Friday, and possibly my entire deposit. Everything was set. A eucalyptus body wrap at 10:30. A three-course lunch at 12:00. Yoga at 2:30. And afternoon tea at 4:00. Instead, I settled for eucalyptus-scented shower gel, which I swiped from our guest bathroom; a breakfast sandwich, which I was sure I'd see again in the near future; a leg-to-mattress friction exercise, which briefly remedied my cold chills; and a double dose of Pepto Bismol, which tasted distinctly like liquified Dubble Bubble with a dash of chalk. But I'm no connoisseur.

Elizabeth still freaks out over lemons. What gives?

I no longer set my alarm for 6:30. Or at all, for that matter. But I still hate deadlines.

Someone did throw up at my New Year's Eve party...twice. Thank you to (then) three-month-old Harper for keeping the tradition alive!

Oh yeah, and I'm entertaining the idea of taking on some "real" freelance work....

Lorazepam and Loot Bags

The last time I planned a celebration for Elizabeth it nearly sent me over the edge. And with her 1st birthday party around the corner, I'm beginning to wonder if history will repeat itself.  

To say that I worried a lot when Elizabeth was born would be an understatement. I agonized over everything. What if the bassinet collapsed? What if I tripped and fell down the stairs with Elizabeth in my arms? What if someone tried to steal my car with her in it? What if someone tried to steal her? What if the chandelier fell on her? (I have only my dad to thank for planting this seed in my head.) Or what if Elizabeth fell into the gorilla exhibit at the zoo? (I actually lost half a night's sleep over this one, after Elizabeth's first trip to the zoo!)

I assumed that these were relatively normal concerns for a first-time mom, and maybe they are.

But when Elizabeth was four months old, I started having anxiety attacks. My new-found confidence as a mother was shattered. Elizabeth's diapers became incapable of containing the required contents. I blamed myself. I even Googled "How to Change a Diaper". Slightly embarrassing. I entered Elizabeth in the baby contest at the Brooklin Spring Fair. What had I done? Would a potential loss scar her later on in life? I caught myself making absent-minded driving decisions. So not only was I an incompetent driver, but once the Baby On Board decal gave me away as a parent, surely I would be judged an incompetent mother as well. (Also, when did my shoulders become so broad? Would I ever feel attractive again?)

I was an absolute mess. And I was tired, tired of feeling like I had to justify every parenting decision I made and tired of trying to please everyone else when doing so only made my life with a new baby more difficult.

When Elizabeth was almost five months old, I had my worst (and hopefully last) anxiety attack. It was the day she was baptized. That day, I felt completely out of my comfort zone, or what was left of it. If I couldn't pull off feeling put-together at home, how was I going to pull off looking put-together in front of an audience of strangers and family members, who I was convinced would be dissecting my every move? The jig would be up, and everyone would finally see me as I saw myself: a complete wreck.

I talked to my OB. He suggested dietary changes: more bananas and more dairy.

I talked to my GP. She prescribed Lorazepam, an anti-anxiety medication. My pharmacist advised me not to take my chill pills if I was breastfeeding (which I was); not to take them 30 minutes before driving (manageable, but most of my attacks occurred while I was operating a motor vehicle); and not to take the drug unless absolutely necessary because it was habit-forming (great, now I was going to become a drug addict, too). The guidelines for taking (or not taking) those little white pills only made me more anxious.

But although I filled the prescription, I never had to use it.

With the exception of one anxiety attack, two trembling hands, and several trips to the ladies room, Elizabeth's baptism went off without a hitch, although we did forget her baptismal certificate at the church. But I'll never forget the smile on her face when she was anointed. And I'll never forget how angelic she looked in the gown that was created for her using the fabric from my wedding dress. 

I'll also never forget how smitten she was with the tropical fish on her first trip to the zoo, or how smitten the owls were with her. Or how my mom screamed from the back of the auditorium when Elizabeth placed 1st in the Fun in the Sun category at the Spring Fair.

And this weekend, whether I'm hoarding Lorazepam or handing out loot bags, I'll never forget her 1st birthday party.

Losing Abby

A few months ago, while filling up my "mom-mobile" at the pump, I found myself reading a missing-pet poster that was plastered on one of the pillars. It read "Have You Scene This Dog?" And that's about as far as I could get without reverting to the glaring typo. I remember smiling at the incorrect use of the word scene, but then I started thinking about the family of this missing pet. Did they have kids? If so, how were they coping? Would they ever find their dog? (There seemed to be a lot of these missing-pet posters around lately.) If not, how would they deal with that? How would they learn to let go? (I was on empty; I had a lot of time to think.) I scolded myself for relishing in that typo under the circumstances. 

I couldn't imagine myself having to draft a poster to find my dog, but then again, I couldn't imagine myself having to draft a poster to lose my dog either, and here I am.

You see, before Elizabeth was born, Richard and I said that if our dog, Abby (who came into our family only weeks before we found out we were pregnant), so much as looked at Elizabeth the wrong way, Abby would have to go. But saying one thing and actually doing it are two different stories.

I'm ashamed to admit that the last time Abby snapped at Elizabeth it wasn't the first. It had happened twice before and we kept justifying it by saying "Oh, she's just not feeling well." It's not that we value Abby's well-being more than Elizabeth's. It's just that we wanted so desperately for our little family to work. But when it came down to it, we had to let go of that fantasy before it became a nightmare.

So with the help of Abby's obedience trainer, who also runs a dog rescue operation, we've begun the process of "losing Abby". Here is my "poster":

     Abby is a 2 ½ year old Bassett Hound/Sharpei mix looking for a dedicated family who can give

     her the exercise and attention she needs on a daily basis.

     Born on August 12^th, 2009, Abby has sadly shuffled through four homes during her short life.

     As a result, she has developed extreme separation anxiety. When in distress, she sheds and

     whines profusely and if left alone uncrated will chew on furniture and door knobs.

     Abby is very affectionate and loving, but she is also very protective of her sleeping quarters

     and her food/treats. She has displayed signs of aggression towards small children and dogs

     who have invaded this space and/or threatened her food supply. She enjoys eating her meals

     in her crate but will fast if crated and left alone.

     While she can be very laid back and enjoys lounging in front of the fireplace, Abby is very

     strong and does exhibit aggressive behaviour towards other dogs while on-leash, which can

     make walking her quite challenging. However, she loves the outdoors and is extremely 

     well-behaved when given the opportunity to run around off-leash with other dogs.

     Abby is spayed and has received all of her vaccinations to-date. (That said, she does have to

     visit the vet from time to time to have her anal glands drained.)

     She has also completed her Beginner and Intermediate Obedience Education. 

   

My poster may have typos, too, but I don't care. Like Abby, it may not be perfect, but it will, in some bizarre way, bring joy and happiness to the person who finds it, to the person who finds Abby. We'll miss you girl.

Lost

I stopped following Lost after its three-month hiatus in the third season, so I guess I can't really blame anyone who's stopped following my blog after its own brief (three-week) hiatus. I am, however, reconsidering the idea of watching the entire Lost series from start to finish, especially because I'd like to start watching Alcatraz but can't seem to bring myself to watch a new J.J. Abrams-related series without having finished an old one. (This anal retentiveness is surely the root of my self-diagnosed neurosis.) I guess what I'm trying to say is that I haven't completely given up on Lost, and I hope you haven't given up on me either.  

The truth is, I've been feeling a bit lost myself these days. Call it the blues, call it the blahs, call it what you will.

Over the past few weeks, my immune system was getting its ass kicked, my reproductive system was kicking mine, and Elizabeth's teething was kicking everyone's. To boot, despite my nightly moisturizing routine, my thumbs starting cracking, making the simple task of fastening a sleeper button feel like I was sticking my finger into an electric pencil sharpener. And, to get an idea of the stellar physical shape I'm in, I literally strained my neck while walking out of one room into another and gargling is near impossible. All in all, it's been a trying few weeks, physically and emotionally. If there were an award for being a "negative Nelly" (as my friend Carolyn would say), surely I'd have won it. (But it's healthy to complain, in moderation, because it's necessary to break yourself down before you can rebuild...right?)

With the help of my husband, my family, my mother-in-law, and my chiropractor, I've managed to get back on track (I think) and check off some much-needed rest, fresh air, light housekeeping, and a neck adjustment from my infinite to-do list (yet another culprit of said neurosis). In any case, I'm still considering temporarily changing the name of my blog to My Name's Debbie, Debbie Downer and am now a bit reluctant to publish one of my next posts, "Lorazepam and Loot Bags"....What the hell. Stay tuned.