Hope you all survived Monday! We are still battling teething (or something) over here, so Ryne and I struggled a bit throughout the day. It will just make going to bed tonight that much better, right? Just say yes.
This afternoon I kept that in mind while gearing up for my “easy” three mile run. I was really not looking forward to it, but once I got out there I started feeling a lot better. Isn’t that how it always goes?
I’m pretty sure the mantra of today’s run was “One step closer to bedtime.” Not even kidding. Anyway, I made it through three slowish miles, and I’m glad I just forced myself to do it. I’ll save a skip day for a long run, ya know? Kidding. Kind of.
Time for a terribly executed segue into weight gain. Recently, a coworker commented that I was lucky that I had lost “all that baby weight”. I have no doubt that they didn’t mean anything by it, but it still got me thinking.
Yes, I gained a good amount of weight. 40 plus pounds to be exact. On my frame, that’s a decent chunk of change. I have the stretch marks up and down my thighs to prove it. And yeah, I did technically gain more than most doctors typically advise women to gain. My doctor, however, saw nothing alarming about my weight. I didn’t, either. It was pretty weird to end up weighing almost as much as my husband, though. That was interesting.
Yes, I have also since lost that weight. It took me months and months, but I did it. It wasn’t easy, and I don’t believe luck had much to do with it. I worked out. I tried to watch what I ate. (Yeah, I watched it go right in my mouth…) What I’m saying is, I didn’t just wake up one day having lost all the weight. I didn’t have some postpartum fairy godmother help me fit into my old jeans. I worked at it.
All that being said, I would probably do it all the same. My life would have been no better or worse if I had gained less weight. It might have made “bouncing back” a bit easier, but a little hard work never hurt anyone. In fact, gaining the weight was a good thing for me. Before having Maddux, I was too focused on the scale. Too worried about what I ate. I spent entirely too much time planning workouts and meals. It was borderline obsessive.
Pregnancy gave me a break from all of that. Pregnancy helped me relax. I was making something. Something pretty freaking awesome, if I do say so myself. It helped me respect my body. Sounds super cheesy, but it’s true. I was more worried about staying healthy and safe than I was about having thin thighs or a six pack. It gave me a fresh perspective, provided me with a new definition of fit, and changed my motives for living a healthy lifestyle. It was amazing. Sure, I still lose sight of these things from time to time. I mean, just yesterday I had a momentary lapse in my sanity. On the whole, though, I am much better off. That, my friends, is a fabulous thing indeed.