Dublin,

It seems like just yesterday I entered the hospital, 3 weeks overdue, ready to meet you. I remember, rather distinctively, how I felt lying on that hospital bed, being hooked up to machines to monitor us both.

I remember the fear when the nurse came in and told me you were stressed out. I remember the fear of knowing I’d taken antibiotics for five months up to that day, to repair my kidneys and the worry of how you would turn out.

When it came time to deliver you, you popped out in about 12 minutes of pushing. The doctor, in his very Irish brogue, commented, “record time!” as he caught you. I remember staring down in absolute disbelief. You were so very perfect. I counted your fingers and toes, just in case and couldn’t stop staring at you the entire time they cleaned you and bathed you.

One of the funnier stories your daddy brings up to me all the time is how during pushing you out, I braced my hands so firmly on the bed for leverage, bearing down on my entire lower half of my body, that immediately following your birth, my arms were numb. In fact, I was unable to lift them more than a few inches. This lasted for the first 48 hours of your life.

A nurse rested you in my arms for your first feeding and then my arms promptly fell asleep. I had one hand resting on your chest, holding that bottle in your mouth but I couldn’t rotate you whatsoever. A few minutes in, the nurse came over to me and said, “Whoops! Looks like your little guy needs more air!” because son, your face was turning purple. Only ten minutes into the job and I was already failing. Your daddy laughed, of course, and will never, ever let me live that down.

The first night home with you was easier in some ways, than I’d imagined. I had a hard time letting you out of my arms, so scared I was that something would happen to you. As a result, I didn’t sleep and instead stared over at you, watching your beautiful little face scrunched up in sleep.

I look at that photo of you at just 1 week old now and I cannot believe that is the same baby boy you are today.

When you turned one month old, your daddy and I packed you into our little Toyota Corolla and embarked on an adventure across country, with our entire lives boxed up in the trunk or beside you in the backseat. This trip was hard on us. Our A/C was busted, our windows were not automatic and we sweated like mad. But you were the most content, quiet baby.

We stopped very frequently. At rest areas, McDonalds, gas stations. And not once did you complain. You made it very easy on us in that respect.

During your second month we were beginning our lives in Idaho. It was quite the transition for us, as parents, moving from a 1500 square foot home to ourselves to living in a 11×11 box of a bedroom. You, us, the cat and all our belongings crowded the space. But still, you were completely content. We marveled at how peaceful you were.

During your third month, your mommy and daddy finally made became legally, eternally, bound. We were married at your grandfather Stuart’s home on the most beautiful day of the year and we had you dressed up special for the occasion.

You were held by everyone that attended, and that’s saying something because our guest book was FULL of signatures. We departed for Idaho the following day and that ended up turning into a three-day journey to just get home. Your daddy and I were running on little or no sleep, but you handled it like a champ. You rarely cried or whined, even though your mommy was doing both of those things, extremely frequently.

The following week, we moved into our new home.

We took you into the pool quite a bit and though, initially, you weren’t a huge fan, you quickly changed your mind.

The next couple months breezed by. We had no cross-country travels, weddings, or new jobs to trifle with so for once, you were finally able to just be a baby in Vermont. And you thrived, boy did you ever thrive. Around month four, you started to become more mobile, learning how to roll over. You also showed your clear love for one sports team over the other (much to your daddy’s dismay, but your mother’s delight):

(In your FACE, daddy!)

Around month five, you really started to share your thrilling personality with us. You let us know that daddy was your absolute favorite. You also became rather fascinated with your feet, and how often you could put them in your mouth.

You would squeal whenever your daddy greeted you in the morning, and really, you still do. You started rolling over to get where you wanted, instead of crawling, baffling your daddy and I as to how to teach you to actually crawl. You expressed your love for green beans and STRONG distaste for green peas, but you never did it with screams. You really started to shine in your fifth month and every single thing you did, I would squeal, “did you see that?! wow!” you anyone willing to listen.

But it was your sixth month that affected us three most significantly. We had our first health scare with you, one morning when you screamed horrible, terrifying screams, for three hours straight. I knew how unsteady I could feel when faced with a possibility of you being very ill, as I drafted an email to your daddy to hurry home, quick. Thankfully, it ended up being a gas issue, and 24 hours of clear liquids sorted you out just fine.

During your sixth month, daddy and I feel even harder for you, while both our hearts broke a little.

If I’ve learned anything about parenting, it’s that every milestone is deeply bittersweet. Yes, we were thrilled when you started responding to us calling you by your name. And yes, we are giddy with each new food you try. But simultaneously, you are one step closer to being a big boy, not our little baby any more. I savor each cuddle you and I have on the couch because I know one day, you will be too big to snuggle with your mommy. You’re starting to look less and less like our little baby blob and more like a big boy each day.

And still, though we know you’re growing up entirely too fast, we are so excited to see you grow in this world. To see that first step, to hear your first word.

You have beautiful, long-lashed blue/green eyes. Your hair was black but is coming back in blonde. Your skin is olive in tone. You have your mommy’s dimples and your daddy’s expressions, your mommy’s fingers and toes and your daddy’s face shape. And when you grin, I see your auntie Brittney and your uncles Spencer and Danny in you. You’re the perfect blend of the family that adores you. You overwhelm us all.

You are the most easy-going baby I know, the happiest and most loving little person. Every single day I turn to your daddy and we marvel at this life we’ve created, this happy little baby so perfect for our family, and wonder how we lucked out. Because being your mommy is like winning the lottery, Dublin. I can’t wait to watch you grow up, to be a part of all the amazing things that make you my Dublin.

Love,
Mommy

For the last month or so, I’ve seen a few twitter debates on full text or partial text in one’s blog feed reader.

If you’re subscribed to my blog, you’ll notice that I’ve changed mine to full. Initially, I had it full text. I only changed it earlier this year to partial feed due to fewer comments/feedback on my posts.

And then Steve started working for the government and I needed to know who was reading my blog. I even protected my tweets for a few months during his probationary period. I wasn’t saying anything confidential, but I didn’t want his security clearance to include his wife’s twitter posts, especially on the days I talked about my monthly cycle or how badly my boobs itched from pregnancy.

So if making my feed a “partial feed” annoyed you, I am sorry. Really, I am. Personally, I don’t see the BIG DEAL that it’s made out to be. I still click through to blogs with partial RSS feeds and honestly, I’m more apt to comment in that case.

I have received so much feedback on my last post, whether through the comments on the more personal emails and all I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you.

My cursor hovered over “Publish” for months. For months I wanted to get that off my chest, hoping that it would somehow explain my erratic behavior, how I’m so similar that old lady down the block with ten cats who doesn’t leave her house. Instead, I’ve just one cat and a happy baby but I still don’t leave the house.

I want to be the woman who, on a whim, flies to Sacramento one weekend to meet sixteen amazing women bloggers with no problem. I want to be the wife who can run to the grocery store when her husband is sick, instead of dragging him out of bed to drive her there. And I want to be the mommy who can sleep easy at night, instead of getting up every hour or so to check on her son. And what can I say, other than I’m working on it?

When I wrote that post, I was having an especially bad day. Lack of sleep and frustration will do that to you. Not every day is that hard, just so you know. But until my kidney issues are resolved, I’m not on my regular medication, and boy, can I feel it. I’m fortunate to have an extremely understanding and patient husband and really, having someone who understands makes all the difference in the world.

***

It’s been over a month since I brought up my weight loss plans and I’m still working on it. I managed to gain six pounds, actually, but thankfully I’ve since lost that plus one. I know that this is going to be a long road and I’m okay with that, even though I do get easily discouraged. Hopefully I lose the first ten pounds sooner than later, because I can’t wait to throw a giveaway for all you wonderful readers of mine.

***

They hand you a prescription for pills that have a little V and they tell you that you’re not alone, that this is very common. They warn you of its addictive properties and of its side effects, but you’re so absorbed in OMG, COMA, DEATH, that you forget the reason you’re told you need them.

But even though they say you’re not alone, they say that many people unknowingly suffer from anxiety, social or otherwise, you feel completely, embarrassingly alone. Because that’s exactly how you prefer to live: alone.

They don’t tell you that even while taking the pills, you are so uncomfortable at your father’s wedding, so terrified of sitting at the family table, that you hide in the bathroom for most of the reception. Or that you routinely cancel doctor appointments, terrified of having to discuss your problems with strangers. You know you have a very mild case, but you can’t imagine it being any worse, any more crippling, than it is.

They don’t tell you that people will be completely insensitive, will misjudge your anxiety as shyness or something equally untrue. You won’t be prepared to go through your pregnancy, never meeting with the same doctor twice, and have a complete stranger delivering your baby, despite your anxiety. And that you will ask to be discharged less than 12 hours after you’ve given birth, still light-headed and weak, but suffering from something akin to severe stage fright every time a new nurse or doctor checks in on you.

The pills they give you are not safe for your baby, so you’ll go through your entire pregnancy without medication, terrified of strangers walking up to you, touching your expanding stomach and asking when you’re due. You’ll try to ignore the cold sweat and speeding heart rate, but it’s no use.

They don’t prepare you for your lame, mumbling explanations of “I have anxiety” to people who don’t understand. When all you really want to do is meet new people, make new friends, you cannot. It’s an ache you can’t imagine, to feel that lonely. You want people to look at you like you’re not crazy, like you’re not a ticking time bomb.

And before it gets better, your anxiety develops into full blown general anxiety. The kind of anxiety that will cause you to call your husband every single hour while he’s at work, to make sure he is okay, because you are terrified that something will happen and BAM, he’ll lose his job and then where will you live and he’ll probably have to join the Army full-time and be deployed ALL THE TIME and then you’ll never ever see him and Dublin will suffer and so on. So you will stay up, under the guise of cleaning your house, until his shift ends at 7 in the morning, calling to check in on him, even though he insists he’s okay.

The kind of anxiety where every trip in the car, your whole system is on high-alert, while riding in the passenger seat. You’ll grip your seat so hard that eventually, you tear the upholstery. And when it snows and the roads are slick – FORGET IT. Your anxiety will induce numerous asthma attacks and you’ll go through inhalers faster than your pharmacist can fill them. And your husband, while patient, is trying not to snap at you for your constant exclamations of “BE CAREFUL!” “WATCH OUT!” and other unnecessary instructions. Or that you will ask your doctor for tranquilizers when you embark on a move across country. Or that it will take double the time necessary to ride that distance in the passenger seat.

You’ll spend the first week of your son’s life attached to him, not letting him leave your arms. You’ll spend the first night at home from the hospital, in hysterics, scared to death that something will happen to him if you go to sleep. So you’ll stay awake with a movie you’re not watching on the television and stare at him breathing in and out. And that first night turns into two nights, then three. You’re a zombie throughout the day, too scared to nap while he is. But he’s still breathing and you feel comforted. Exhausted, but comforted.

If your husband is late from work, or from a guys’ night, your mind tricks you into believing that he’s leaving you, that he doesn’t want you anymore. You feel a lot of abandonment, when ironically, you’re the one abandoning people first.

The line between anxiety and paranoia is so blurred that you don’t know what your disorder is half of the time.

You develop irrational fears of so many things. Airports, grocery stores, weddings, work functions, fitness centers… All because you think something bad will happen there or worse, you’ll be judged. The anticipation of engaging in any of those things is enough to make you crazy. Your palms start to sweat and your stomach does constant flip flops and you feel like throwing up and crying.

So you blog and you tweet because it’s easier to be judged when you’re not physically witnessing the expression of those judging you. And deep down, secretly, you hope that someone can relate.

I hope you all are having an exceptionally great weekend. We started off ours on Thursday, with my screaming, crying baby boy. He cried exactly three hours straight and honestly, it was one of the hardest times for me as a mother. It’s horrible to feel that helpless. I scheduled an emergency appointment and lo, it’s *just* a stomach virus. I say just because he doesn’t have to be on any specific medications and surely, I was imagining much worse. Basically – kid is GASSY. Two days of Spring and Pedialyte seemed to help him out.

Friday, Stephen finally went to get a tattoo done. I’d mentioned earlier that he was going to get Dublin’s name done in large script. And he will, eventually. But he’s been wanting to get a certain tattoo done since we became serious. No! It’s not MY name, but it does have to do with me. Actually, he got it done for his upcoming deployment.

The ring on my middle finger is Stephen’s wedding ring. It’s white gold with 7 black diamonds (7 is my lucky number).

‘Due to the work he’ll be doing, wearing any jewelry on his hands while in Iraq is hazardous. He even has a friend who lost a finger due to catching his wedding ring on a piece of equipment. But he wanted to carry a piece of me somehow. So he had his wedding ring tattooed onto his ring finger.

This is hours after it was finished and Steve was actually pretty nauseous from the whole thing. It’s the smallest of all his tattoos, but it hurt the most, especially on the sides of his finger. I know, tattooing one’s finger is rather unconventional, but I think it’s sweet that he wanted to do this. Plus, they couldn’t stay completely true to the design, as the detail would eventually blur and look silly. But he’s happy. That’s all that counts.

On Saturday, we went to this indoor go-kart raceway just down the road from us. Steve’s been wanting to go for the past five months and because he’s been working so hard, I figured why not? I sat on the sidelines because Dublin sort of needed a parent to hold him. Selfish kid!

(If you’re a new reader, I hope you recognize sarcasm.)

And here’s a worthless, blurry photo of Steve drifting around a corner. If you know Stephen, you know that cars/racing are his life. This THRILLED HIM. It was like a little kid on Christmas.

Stephen and Dublin.

Stephen starts shift work on Sunday, so he’ll be gone from 5 PM – 9 AM for the next four days. It’s sure to be pretty lonely around here.

How was your weekend?

Didn’t mean to get so emotional-like on my previous posts. I’m realizing in the email replies and comments you all so graciously left that I got a little sad there for a minute. NO MORE SADNESS!

By the way, seriously, thank you all for your feedback. You are the reason I love to blog and love to read other blogs. The community; it’s unreal.

Onto business.

Daddy kiss tired baby face.

Daddy nibble on baby cheeks.

Baby suck on daddy’s cheeks.

Baby EAT DADDY’S NOSE.

(You missed the part where IMMEDIATELY after this photo, D vomited all over Daddy. It was a moment.)

**

FOUND. Old photos of my boyfriend and I. Back when I was the weight I’m trying to get back to.

Also, my hair was long. And without style.

**

Also found, a series of b&w’s I took when my friend Sona was dating my cousin. Their romance didn’t end well (meaning, they’re not together NOW), but I loved the photos I took of them and his son.

**

That time I went to the Seahawks training camp, flirted with one of the assistant coaches and met Marcus Trufant. If you can’t see me in the following photo, click on through!

**

Dude! You’re getting a PIECE OF SHIT Dell! (Not a deal, mind you, a DELL.)

**

Several things need to be said about the following photo.

1. Yes, Stephen’s hair is reddish pink. It was from a mohawk recently shaved off, a mohawk I had bleached and dyed pink (staining his scalp in the process). We did it in honor of the Red Sox game we’d attended a week prior (the weekend I walked around Boston, 40ish weeks pregnant OMG).

2. Our photographer promised to fix it in Photoshop, which, clearly, she didn’t. But, she took these for free.

3. I AM ENORMOUS. Like, I should have looked into applying for my own zipcode. I don’t even know whose body that is, honestly. I’m stunned.

**

My husband looks naked here. But he isn’t. He just isn’t wearing PANTS. My kid on the other hand, IS naked.

**

Hope you enjoyed the random.

Stephen found out on Friday, his first day with his new National Guard unit, that they would be deploying next September. So now his weekend warrior deal will be UTA-6s or UTA-8s (All day Friday-Sunday or Thursday-Sunday) and next August he’ll have AT (Annual Training) for three weeks and then he’ll be home for one week before departing for his Mob station for deployment. This deployment means a few things.

1. Dublin will be 15 months old when he leaves and will be almost 2 and a half when he returns.
2. His unit is an artillery unit, which means he’ll be doing combat this go-around.
3. Dublin and I will be moving back to Vermont for the year or so he’s gone, to be around all of his and my family.
4. He’s excited. He enjoyed both of his last two tours to Iraq and has kind of yearned to go back.
5. Baby number two plans have been put on hold indefinitely.
6. Though I knew this was coming, it’s a little bit of a sinking feeling.

The sinking feeling has more to do with Dublin than anything. I grew up on Treasure Island, California which is a now-defunct Naval base. My mom tried her best to familiarize me with my father while he was away, on his tours. She’d point my father out in all the photos she had of him, which were mostly him in his uniform. Since we lived on a base, whenever we’d leave our little house and walk around the neighborhood, I’m told that I would point to every seaman in uniform and exclaim “daddy!”

I recovered okay, of course and have fond early memories of my dad’s elaborate reunion home, walking aboard the USS Enterprise (yes, the one from Top Gun!). But I can’t help but worry about Dublin handling the whole situation. As I mentioned in point 3, we will be spending his entire deployment in Vermont. It’s a lot of change for a child so young, so I’m worried to how he’ll adjust, especially since Steve is the clear “favorite” parent in our house. There’s just no point in us staying in Idaho for that duration, away from our family and friends. Dublin deserves a chance to get to know his family. I’m going to do my best at reminding Dublin of his father all the time, but pictures are no substitute for the real thing, you know?

The unit Stephen has transferred into is an artillery unit, which was different than his prior engineers unit. While in Iraq, with his former unit, they built a bunch of buildings and he maintained the heavy vehicles. But this unit will be more infantry; he’ll be more involved with heavy shooting. Maybe it’s weak of me or maybe I am unpatriotic, but that scares me. I can’t help it. He still has a few long term injuries from his last tour. He had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his eye and his back is forever messed up from carrying heavy packs and jumping out of tall machinery carrying said packs. He’s supposed to have that worked on at some point, but he uses electrodes for the moment to help rebuild the muscle in his lower back.

Which brings me to my fifth point. We had talked about trying for baby number two sometime later next year, after Dublin’s first birthday, but there is absolutely no way I can be pregnant, with a toddler, living out of a suitcase of sorts in Vermont, while he’s away. I had a complicated pregnancy with Dublin and my team of doctors predicted further pregnancies would have similar complications. Steve was my major support during my hospitalizations and I don’t think I could do it again without him.

I realize all of this is rather self-centered and I’m sorry for that. Simultaneously, I have a feeling of ease over me about him leaving. I know that the Middle East is not as dangerous as it was before. And Steve is excited about going. So I feel better knowing that he’s leaving on a good note. He enjoyed his two tours before and is more than ready to return, especially with the guys in his new unit who he dubs a bunch of badasses. Naturally, that’s a relief. And I’m very proud of him, proud that he’s excited to serve our family, our country, in a hostile environment. That’s honorable. I supported my husband in his decision to reenlist for another six years this past spring. His plan is to continue until he can retire, so I know, for certain, that there will be several deployments in our future, as long as there is conflict in our world.

So really, it’s okay. I’m proud to have a husband who enjoys serving for our country, a husband who has already spent nearly 7 years in the National Guard and is looking at another 18 or so more. But I married the guy because I like having him around; I will miss the hell out of him.

Besides, while he’s deployed, I have the go-ahead to visit all my favorite bloggers (or BLIGGERS!). That’s my husband’s super generous way of telling me to take a break and not worry so much and meet all of you wonderful people.

So on that note, any couches I can crash, friends?

Here’s the thing, sometimes I let my feelings get hurt way, way too easily. And I’m WHINY about it. Publicly. Through twitter or facebook. I let other’s judgements affect me too deeply, I wear my heart right on my sleeve.

Case in point, that anonymous commenter, “Smith.” I can laugh at any mean comment from some obscure troll like the rest of them, but it genuinely hurt that he called my husband white trash. Initially, it bothered Steve a bit too, until he said, “Who gives a flying [rhymes with duck] what some random commenter thinks of me?” I wish I could adopt his attitude, because really, I have so many other things to be concerned about than the thoughts of someone who doesn’t even know me or my family and spends their time insulting other people.

Remember the crazies from Facebook? Yeah, well, them too. I posted my thoughts on parenting a couple months ago, right before I stumbled across the Crazies Craigslist ad. No matter what I said about how I raised Dublin, I was WRONG. Because she’d been there before (w/a 2 year old) and that made her the author of “How To Be A Parent” I guess. It ranged from the brand of formula we bought “Oh, we NEVER bought our daughter anything less than [insert the crazy/rare expensive formula]!” Or “wow, plaid clothing is a trend really? I thought that only existed among lumberjacks” < that last gem said as I was wearing this shirt. Sidenote, look how tiny Dublin was, SOB!

But the thing that hurt me the most was when Stephen’s maternal grandmother questioned my patriotism and support of my husband’s military career, publicly, on Facebook, admonishing me by telling me of all her family members who served for our country and how I should be grateful.

Dublin’s middle name, Russo, was my great-grandfather’s last name. He passed right before I could tell him I was pregnant. Here’s a photo of him.

This was around 1940, I’m assuming. You can’t really tell, but he’s wearing an Army uniform in this photo. He served in WWII. I am immensely proud to have known him and respected him a great deal.

My father served in the U.S. Navy, and was on tour throughout my mom’s entire pregnancy with me, arriving home JUST before I was born. I was born on Travis Air Force Base and spent the first 6 years of my life traveling around the U.S. with my parents, in support of his military career.

One of my very best friends, Sona, is currently serving in the U.S. Marine Corps, based in Quantico, Virginia. I’ve flown down there several times, even did the 10 hour drive from Vermont to Virginia with her once. WHICH WAS TERRIFYING. She was born in Iraq to Christian parents and spent most of her life in the Middle East, persecuted for her religion. Her story is here. Nothing made me prouder than when I flew to South Carolina in 2005 to cheer her on at her boot camp graduation ceremony.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you’d know that Stephen is in the Army National Guard. His MOS (Military Occupation Specialties) is in heavy-wheeled vehicles. Basically, he fixed things like these during his two tours in Iraq. He does the weekend warrior thing you hear on commercials (one weekend a month, two weeks a year) and was set to deploy again this coming January, had we not moved to Idaho. We finally found a unit in Idaho that was in need of his skills and this weekend he had a UTA-6, which means 3 days of classwork, and typically he stays at his armory overnight.

This weekend conflicted with his regular job hours, so he had to make up a bunch of hours here and there throughout this week, working 16 hour days to compensate. He had one day off in the last two weeks of 16-hour days and as soon as this weekend of Guards is finished he has 16 hours nights (5 PM – 9 AM). My husband works very, very hard, and all of that came through this week when he arrived home, completely wiped out and dreading going to work the next day. He never complains, so I knew that he had to have been worn out.

I said something on Facebook, about how I felt bad for him, working so much and then right to Guards for three days straight and back to work again with no break. I felt bad for him, because he works so damned hard for this family and doesn’t get to see Dublin on the days he works; he’s gone before D wakes up and comes home after his bedtime. And with Guards, he wouldn’t see either of us. He doesn’t mind Guards, let me get that straight. He says he signed up and will never, ever complain, it’s the not seeing his family that affects him.

I won’t quote the comment I received from Stephen’s grandmother, but it effectively said I didn’t support my husband’s military career, called me unpatriotic and told me to get a hobby. It hurt. I called my mom in hysterics, Sona called me when she read the comment and I received a bunch of emails and @ replies on twitter, asking, essentially, WTF?

When Steve came home, he read the entire thread, including all the supportive comments I received, (namely from Annie, who put it in complete perspective, articulated it better than I could have) and he looked at me like, “Seriously?” I suggested it was misplaced anger. Stephen called his mother and basically received a brick wall, she fully supports her mother, even after Steve defended me and said I did nothing wrong. He even said that the comment was completely random, I wasn’t complaining that he had Guards, I was complaining that he was over-worked and exhausted.

I deleted the thread already, it bothered me too much to even look at. But I spent nearly the entire day crying. Why? I shouldn’t let things like this bother me, but I do. I’d like to think that I brush off a lot of petty things and that I can get over things pretty easily, but it seems I can’t. I know that my future relationship with Steve’s mom and grandmother will be strained at best, because I will have a very hard time getting over it.

Please tell me I’m not the only one here that gets their feelings hurt so easily. I hate to hold grudges but these sorts of things go hand in hand, at least for me.

I’m really good at making a resolution and initiating all the start up details. Especially when it comes to losing weight. But I’m bad, no, I’m atrocious at the follow-through.

I bought the weight watchers membership, I bought the 30-Day Shred, sanitized my yoga mat and acquired simple weights.

And so far, I’ve kept track of points for one day, have done the Shred once and haven’t even taken my handweights out of their packaging.

It started on Thursday. See, I purchased Jillian Michael’s 30-Day Shred back in, uh, MARCH, when I was pregnant and round and full of, “oh! I will get back into my clothes NO PROBLEM!” and “it’s not THAT hard to lose weight!” And I let it sit there, on my tv stand, gathering dust until three months later, when we started packing up to move to Idaho. Yes, I got rid of my nearly brand new Yankee Candles, my dining room table and 2 month old living room set, but I kept the Shred and threw my yoga mat into the car as an after thought, vowing to implement them once I arrived to Idaho.

Two months after that, we flew back to Vermont and got married. And I’m sharing the following photo, to reiterate my point. (Btw, the woman in the middle is my mom, she officiated our wedding – cool, right?)

I was ten weeks postpartum, but I looked pregnant and bloated and really, the thing I regret about my wedding day is that I felt FAT. And the feeling fat overshadowed some of my excitement and frankly, that kind of bums me out.

And, do you want to laugh? Because I just found this photo from the wedding after-party on my Flickr:

But back to the fat. There are other photos – I still haven’t seen my professional photos, it’s been almost 3 months – like these (sorry for the side boobage):

That I prefer, but still, I feel overwhelmingly large, especially next to my slender husband. And since that photo, I’ve lost some of the bloat but none of the weight.

In fact, since I wrote this post, I’ve managed to gain five pounds. I can blame it on the stress of trying to find a tenant for a property 3,000 miles away, or how busy I am taking care of Dublin, but really? I’m on here, commenting on other’s blogs, updating my Facebook status with unimportant details or tweeting about something that no one, including myself, really cares about.

What I’m saying is that in all reality, I DO have the time to take better care of my body, but I’m not. And I don’t know what to do to change this, or how to better motivate myself from this point.