A prayer, from Spike

Right before she brushed her teeth, she asked me to stop. She folded her sweet little hands, looked up to the sky and sweetly said,

That's when you know you're doing something right.

What the scale said in February

Since the first time I stepped on to see my 3-digit starting point after Sloppy Joan (also known as the slap-out-of-denial dose of shame they prescribe at the postpartum checkup), I’ve had a daunting number hanging over my head. Now, something to keep in mind here, I’m not shooting for the supermodel-slim stars. I have my eyes on a prize that puts me simply within my “healthy” weight range and by and large, a bullseye for my BMI. And I know that being well is more than a number; it’s the way your denim doesn’t dig into your flat tire and the extra 30 minutes you can tack onto the family bike ride. Now that we have those pleasantries out of the way … 

The scale says:
Down -  24 pounds
To Go – 23 pounds

This is a dance I’ve done before. I’ve done it three times, to be exact, and the partner is always the same. It’s a two-faced counterpart that consists of both an uber health-conscious chia-eater and a fried food/sugar addict who goes to bed with the first cookie she sees.

I admire women who keep their weight down through each trimester and quickly bounce back to their beautiful selves. I equally admire those who fight like hell to lose every pint of Chubby Hubby, basket of fried pickles and bag of Cheetos, because they know what they did and they know their sentence is a year – or however long it takes – of awkward sweat, suffocating guilt and tough choices to get it off. So, obviously, I am a card-carrying member of the latter, and I’m only halfway out of the woods.

I feel less pressure to drop my extra l-bs as quickly this go-around. First of all, red carpet season is over (thank goodness), and second, we aren’t planning on more babies. I always felt like it was a race against my maternal clock to shed the weight before the next tenant checked into my uterus. This time, I know it’s a lifelong investment.

The plan. The progress.*
Whole30 – Completed February 5 (100%)
Kayla Itsines 12-week Bikini Body – On Week 6 (50%)
Join a gym – Officially members and finding a stride(3%)

Clean eating – Oy. (2.1%)
Half Marathon – Need to train to start training in July (1%)
Hike – Planning phase (2%)
Yoga – Every Sunday (10%)
Slim & Sassy essential oil – Skeptical, but it’s in the mail (5%)

*These percentages are based on complete bullshit because I don’t know how to do math or quantify something like “joining a gym”.

Three for three

As the third born in my own family, I know the perks and pitfalls of being the baby better than anyone. Yes, the masses dote and fawn over your adorable little personality and thigh folds, but you also get two older siblings within earshot plotting your fall from favor. You get carried around for an obscene amount of time, but once they put you down, it's all farts to the face and baby doll beheadings.

As we near Sloppy Joan's 9-month mark in our family, I couldn't help but notice the third-child tribulations are already turning up.

[1. I mean, who could blame JoJo? Those cheeks are just screaming for a squeeze.  2. This is an actual picture that sits on my desk. Spike was 2 by the time I finally set up professional family pictures and if I'm going for transparency here, it will likely be a few before that train pulls around again. Flashbacks of the desolate pages of my own baby book. For now, a dear friend provided a Post-it Sloppy Joan that makes me smile, and the group whole.  3. Ugh, older sisters. They never want to play with you and when they do, it always looks something like this.]

Sloppy Joan vs. "Beyonce"

Who caught the best wind?

Sloppy ...

Maya Rudolph 100 percent killin it ...

With boots on her feet

Tune in today to see if she can … Find hiking boots.

Like a million other women, I pulled back the cover of Wild and awakened a sleeping bear in the form of extreme wanderlust. As I read the autobiographical recount of days on the Pacific Crest Trail, I realized that I, too, want to walk until I exfoliate my suburban, mundane surface and expose feelings that typically hibernate under a warm blanket of daily to-dos and small little humans. I want to turn off my cell phone (I mean still take it, of course, just power it down.) and get lost in tall trees and winding trails. Honestly, the more I try to keep everyone on schedule, the more I really just want to get lost for a few days.

I waxed poetic to my husband about the pages and pages, and steps and steps, that heroine (who did heroin) Cheryl Strayed took and how I felt like we should totally do that. We should be showing our girls that they should do that. I must have really sold it, because every birthday, Christmas and Valentine’s Day gift since has been an accessory to backpacking, including an actual backpack.

With my arsenal building, I have just a few essentials left before I go full-blown granola. At the top of my list is a pair of hiking boots. I have very few requirements. They must: 1) Have traction and ankle support because I, like my Mother, am in a constant cage match against gravity. And, 2) Take me to places that change me.

One more thing. I’m not a shopper. I hate driving from place to place and price comparisons and sales people and back orders and all that business. I buy – usually online – based on star ratings and alt shots and I am, basically, an E-Commerce director’s wet dream.

So, now we’re all caught up. I’ve been randomly dropping by REI’s site for months and have the field narrowed a bit, with options from the straight-up Cheryl Strayed style to total forest-chic.

I welcome trail testimonials, tales of fallen soles and tried-and-true recommendations. Help me lace up and chase my Wild side.

Until next time …

Spoken like a Superwoman

Baby ["mama"] talk

Tonight, my sweet Sloppy Joan said her second word. (All three said "Dada" first. How quickly they forget the landlord at their first apartment.) It's one of my favorite milestones, and well worth the wait.

Once more for the folks in the cheap seats ...

I love this time when the sound of them calling for you is so precious and it doesn't make your ears bleed or your reproductive organs jump up into your throat to hide.