Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs...

I find it increasingly difficult to know what to say these days. I feel any creativity I had was sapped when I got pregnant. Perhaps my uterus ate it. It ate everything else. Why not that, too?

Seriously. I don't think I could have gotten fatter with my pregnancy if I tried. I guess I DID try. Eating is one thing I'm really, really good at. I feel like I should make a list of the OTHER things I'm really good at. Or whatever. In the meantime, I'll just go ahead and work on getting rid of my baby weight.

The thing is, I'm actually quite good at losing weight. I have lost more weight than I currently weigh. Which, if you think about it, sounds really, really impressive. It would be even more impressive if I shared how much I weigh. I won't. So move on.

The problem isn't losing weight. The problem is that I've lost it, gained it, lost it, gained it, lost it, gained it....I don't do so well with the losing and not gaining. It's almost as though the weight loss must be accompanied by the weight gain. Otherwise the cycle is not complete.

Lately, however, there have been a few (few=3, right. Ok, there have been more than a few...) signs that it's time to start, but not complete, the cycle.

Sign number 1: my 10% weight loss key chain from Weight Watchers broke. For those of you who don't know, Weight Watchers gives you a key chain when you have lost the first 10% of your body weight. In all fairness, I should have a full gross of these key chains, rather than the one I have. Or had. Whatever. Anyway. The one I had, broke. And not only did it break, it broke as I attempted to avoid making multiple trips to my car by opening the door to my house while carrying my son, the biggest diaper bag known to man (hey, Mr. Spit Up King requires several outfit changes a day. And yes, it's the spit up that makes new outfits mandatory. It's not because he has so many adorable outfits. Not only because he has so many adorable outfits.), a large dunkin donuts ice coffee, AND dinner. Dinner, as usual, was something that came in a paper bag and was handed to me through the car window. Perhaps you can see the problem(s) here.

Signs number 2 and 3: AJ (also referred to as Bubba, the Bubs, or the little boy) and I recently
took a plane ride. If you know me at all, you know that flying is the absolute worst experience in my life. I liked labor more than I like flying. (That's really not a fair comparison...I actually did like labor. Not in a creepy orgasm kind of a way. More like a "yay I get to meet my son and stop being terrified constantly" kind of way. Also, in the "whoo hoo epidurals rock!" kind of way.) Despite my fear, my biggest concern while planning the trip was, "Will the Bubs be able to sit on my lap in the tiny airplane seat?" (Answer: yes).

Once that fear subsided, my normal fear of flying was back in full force. And I'm not only fearful, I'm crazy. So I play stupid games with the universe. Like, "If the HG texts me before we get on the plane, everything will be fine." or "If there is another baby on the plane, everything will be fine." or "If AJ cries after we're seated, it's a sign I should get off the plane." It's interesting to note that the HG did NOT text me. There was NOT another baby on the plane. And AJ screamed bloody murder till we pulled away from the gate. And I lived to tell about it. Which brings me to sign number three: in addition to looking for "signs" (which frankly, never turn out right), I also pray nonstop on the flight. The prayer always starts off as something terribly selfish (Please, Lord, don't let me die before I: get married, have kids, buy a house, fill in random goal here....) that I try to turn around into something for someone else (Dear Lord, please don't let the plane crash because my niece would be devastated, the HG's grandmother wont' get to meet AJ, the HG would never recover....) I do that because it seems less self serving and thus somehow more worthy of being answered. (I've mentioned I'm crazy, yes? Just checking.) On this flight my prayers were something like this: "Dear Lord, please don't let me die fat. Please don't let my last meal have been cold hash browns and an egg mcmuffin. Please don't let the last memory Scott has is me fat." Ok, see you might have been able to dispute the first two signs as evidence I need to lose weight, but it's really hard to argue with this third one.

There were more, I just can't remember them. But you get my point. It's clear that it's time for me to get off my fatass and do something about my weight. I'm not happy. And it's not healthy for my little boy to see, either. Yes, he might only be 4 months old, but how long do I let that be my excuse? Do I wait until he's a year old? Two years? Three? Do I use the baby weight as an excuse forever? I'm going to screw my kid up enough, I don't need to add the guilt of being the reason his mom is fat to the mix. Also, if I plan to screw him up right, I have to be around for a long time...which means I have to get healthy! (Let's ignore for the moment that my doctor says I'm the healthiest fat person she knows. I have the health of a 120 pound woman. I just don't have her jeans. I'd like her jeans.)

Ok, so the next question is, what do I do to find motivation? I want to BE skinny. I don't want to GET skinny. I suppose confronting the truth about why I'm fat would be a good place to start.

Truths:
I'm fat because I eat too much
I'm fat because I don't want to exercise
I'm fat because I choose to eat crap
I'm fat because I don't do anything about it
I'm NOT fat because I had a baby
I'm NOT fat because I have a slow metabolism (Which I do, but that's a poor excuse. Very poor.)
I'm NOT fat because I have a hormonal imbalance (also true, but once you know about it, you lose the right to use it as an excuse)
I'm NOT fat because I have to much extra skin (this is quite true, but it's not like it's the only thing I have to lose...)

Ok. Well, I got that out of the way.

Does this mean that now that I'm not in denial, I will magically wake up thin? Probably not. But at least it's a step in the right direction.

Now I have to go finish my ice cream before it melts.

Big Bang Theory breeds deep thoughts

So, I'm watching Big Bang Theory with the HG. Wolowitz says at one point, "I have a master's degree!". He says this in indignation when his boss very distinctly calls him "MR. Wolowitz", as opposed to "Dr.". To which his boss responds "Who doesn't?".

Yeah.
I don't.

I DO have a Bachelor's. From a New York state school that, at the time, had no admission requirements.

Here's the thing. I'm smart. I'm very smart. I'm Mensa smart. (Yeah, I'm bragging. Bite me. Don't worry, it's all downhill from here.) I'm too smart. I'm smart enough that I managed to graduate from college with a 3.something-or-other even though I never studied, turned in most of my projects late, did said projects as last minute as possible, and skipped more classes than I attended.

So, I'm smart. So? Whoopty do. Me and a million other people. Brains only matter if you're going to use them. Somehow I don't think singing the alphabet to my son while signing it counts as using my brain. It's good for him, but I have to be honest, I've known my alphabet for quite some time now.

Most of my friends have impressive jobs. Doctors. Engineers. CPAs. I have a friend who home schools her 2 boys and runs a business out of her home. I have very good friends who are not currently working out of the home but they all went to excellent colleges. My point is that I like to brag about my friends. I'm proud of them. They are all smart, accomplished women. The HG and I occasionally go out with a group of friends--all of whom have master's degrees or PhD's. They are all engineers. Of the people I spend the most time with, I am the only person I know who has only a bachelor's degree. I feel like a failure.

I am not disparaging anyone who didn't go to college, or didn't finish. I'm not disparaging anyone who "only" has a bachelor's degree.

I'm disparaging myself.

When I was little, I wanted to be a teacher. A writer. A lawyer. All three. I used to line my dolls and stuffed animals up and "teach" them to read. I wrote anything and everything I could think of--I even won some writing contests. I'd spend hours creating and arguing legal cases in my mind. Direct and cross examining witnesses. Objecting to imaginary offenses perpetrated by the opposing counsel. I often fell asleep at night giving closing arguments in my mind.

As I got older, I discovered a deep passion for cooking. Food is like art on a plate to me. It's a way to express myself without having the ability to draw, paint, or sculpt. As my love for food grew, so did my interest in the human body. I love watching surgery. Reading about and researching medical and health issues. I had surgery last year and I actually asked to be awake so I could watch. My doctor declined. Hmph. (I am, however, going to be awake for my hand surgery on Aug 6th. Woot!)

My point is, I have interests. But what have I done with them? What have I done that is brag worthy? When my friends want to introduce me, what do they say? "This is my friend Kate. She' works in insurance." "She went to a nothing college." "She hasn't done jack diddly squat of importance with her life"?

And yet, at the same time, I feel a little bad for feeling this way. I have a wonderful life. I have a fantastic son. A great husband. A cute house. A good job. I shouldn't want more. I shouldn't feel entitled to more.

And I also have equally wonderful friends who never went to college. Never worked an "impressive" job. Never did any of the things I silently yell at myself for not doing. And I love them as fiercely as I love my family. So, why do I beat myself up for something I wouldn't even think twice about in someone I love? Shouldn't I love myself as much as I love them?

Yes, I suppose I should. But I still can't help but want more. I want my son to be proud of me. I want him to someday say, "This is my mom and she xxx".

But perhaps more importantly, I want to be proud of me. Now, if only I could figure out what would make me proud of me. And damn it, I don't want to write any more of these boring, navel gazing blog entries. I'm boring myself...I can only imagine how you feel.

IDKMYBFFK8

Warning: Uncharacteristic deep thoughts ahead

That's my email address.
IDKMYBFFK8

As in: I don't know, my BFF Kate. It started as a joke based on a commercial for one of the cell phone companies (Dad asks who Grandma is texting, she says "IDK, my BFF, Rose"). My actual best friend's husband asked her who she was IMing, to which she responded "IDKMYBFFK8". I'm easily amused, so when I needed a new email address, one unassociated with my message board persona, I chose this.

But now I'm thinking about what it actually means. Is it "I don't know, my best friend Kate." or "I don't know my best friend Kate."

I'm starting to think it's the latter.
Because I don't really know "Kate" anymore.

For far too long I've focused on having a child. I don't even remember a time if my life when I didn't want a child, if a time even existed. Boyfriends were merely potential husbands (very BAD potential husbands. Yikes.). A husband being the first milestone to having a child. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband very much. And had we never had children, I would still be happily married to him. But a piece of me would still be missing.

And now AJ is here. And I love him. He is my heart and soul. The absolute love of my life.
But 3 months later and I'm starting to wonder: who am I?

I too often find myself describing myself as a wife and mother. I'm "Scott's wife". I'm "AJ's mom". When pressed to describe myself, I come up empty handed. Certainly I'm more than a wife and mother. Is that OK? Is it OK to finally have what I always wanted and find myself wanting more?

The thing is, I think I almost liked myself better when I was struggling with infertility. I was focused. I had a hobby of sorts. So pathetic. Now I spend my days wondering if I'm doing enough for AJ. For my husband. For my family. Did I do enough tummy time with AJ? Did I do enough around the house? Why didn't I cook dinner? What did I leave undone that I shouldn't have? What can I do tomorrow that is somehow better than what I did (or didn't) do today? I go to be unsatisfied with my accomplishments for the day.

But you know, I read though my posts from last year and I realize, I was unsatisfied then, too. Sure, I was focused, I had a goal. But it was a goal driven by my dissatisfaction with my life. And, frankly, I find that sad. I don't want to be unsatisfied. I don't want to be perpetually in the "pursuit" of happiness. I want to just plain BE happy.

So, I've decided that I'm just going to plain BE happy. I'm going to figure out who my BFF Kate is and love her the way she is. After all, that's how I love my kid and my husband--just as they are. And I'm at least as worth it as they are, right? (My kid is cuter, but I think I trump the husband).

As a result, I changed the name of my blog and I'm going to start "finding" me. Or at least talking a lot about it. Cuz, you know, I'm all talk most of the time....

Socks.

I have a problem. Hold me.

I am obsessed with baby socks. Not just any baby socks. Baby socks that apparently cannot be found in the United States. For real.

These socks are made in Canada and I cannot find them anywhere. I cannot find them to purchase online. You'd think there would be a Canadian company who would sell them online. You'd be wrong. I'm pissed at Canada. I hate an entire country over socks. This is a problem. Perhaps there is a support group I can attend. "Hi, my name is Kate and I'm obsessed with baby socks."

Ok, but here's the thing about baby socks. They don't stay on. Especially when your child has, sadly, inherited your tiny feet. My feet are so small, the HG teases me that I look like I should fall over. My feet don't look big enough to hold me up. Which explains why I fall so frequently. My feet are too small. Huh. I'm 34 and just now figured out why I'm not the picture of grace...it's my feet. Good to know.

I digress. Baby socks don't stay on. I have tired everything. I've pulled them up to his knees like a little poindexter (am I the only one with an 80's rap song running through my head now?). I've put him in tiny, little newborn size socks. I've put him in bigger socks (I'm not sure what my plan here was. Desperation.) No dice. Nothing works. With 2.6 seconds of having socks on his feet, he will remove them. I once thought about taping them to his feet. But people get all worked up when you tape things to your children (especially if it involves duct tape and pacifiers) and frankly, I think DSS wouldn't find my sense of humor amusing. I don't think they'd understand that asking them if it's OK to tape my child in his crib was a joke. They tend to be a humorless bunch. Not that I blame them. Must be a humorless job. One I could never, ever do. So really, I have nothing but respect for them. It's the idiots who call them on the tiniest of infractions, like, say taping socks to your child's feet, that get me all worked up. So, let's save the fine employees at DSS time and just all agree that it's OK tape the @$#&! baby socks to our children. (The HG has suggested glue. I think that's worse than tape. I would have suggested staples, but come on. Where would I find staples that match every outfit?)

But assuming I can't get the rest of the world on board with my master plan, I will settle for just more of the socks that actually stay on my son's feet.

I will pay just about anything for more of these socks. For one, I cannot count the number of socks I've lost in the past 2 1/2 months. I mean, I'm generally used to opening the dryer to only 1/2 the socks I put in. Like the rest of the world, I have no idea what happens to 1/2 my socks once they go in the dryer. 12 go in, 6 come out. Sometimes, with luck, 4 of the 6 match and I've come out ahead. It really sucks when 6 un-matching socks come out. I have a laundry basket full of unmatched socks. Once, when I was on bedrest, I got ambitious (read: bored) and decided to "match" them all. I came up with 3 pairs. And 147 unmatched socks. How I had enough socks to have 147 unmatched ones in the first place, I couldn't tell you. But I did. And, frankly, still do. I'm pretty sure that someday, all 147 socks will end up with their proper mates and all will be right with the world again.

But at least with the little man socks, I know where they go. They go on the ground on walks to Dunkin Donuts (hey, it's a mile away and they have ice coffee). They go on the floor of the mall. They go to the bottom of my diaper bag (which is a bottomless pit, so they will never be retrieved). They go under the seats of my car. They basically go wherever they land when my little man kicks them off. I can't tell you how many times an out of breath stranger has handed me random baby sock while gasping, "ma'am...you...dropped...this....4 miles back....". I suppose I should be grateful. And I am. But I also feel bad for them. It's always a guy. And he always thinks he's done a good thing. And he has. But sadly, what he doesn't know is that I lose approximately 6.2 pairs of socks a day and have a back stock of socks that will last through at least 17 more children (watch your back Michelle Duggar...I have socks to burn).

So, while I know where they go, I still don't like that they fall off all the time. My poor little guy has his mommy's feet. Small and cold. They're like ice cubes. Tiny little ice cubes with bad toes (hey, he got my feet, but his daddy's toes....). And tiny little ice cube feet need socks. So socks that fall off are useless. I have too many useless baby things as it is. I need socks to work.

And here's the thing. I HAVE socks that work. Not only do they work, they're really cute. I mean, really cute. So cute people stop me to ask where I got them. So cute they feed in to my cute sock obsession (huh, I think I just figured out how I managed to accrue 147 unmatched socks...). One pair has a little duckie and little yellow pom poms. And says "quack" on the bottom. Ok, not very masculine. But ever so adorable.

But I cannot, for the life of me, find more of these socks. I have stalked Babies R Us (which is where they were first purchased). I have scoured the Internet. I even went to the manufacturer's website (no small task since for weeks I couldn't remember the manufacturer's name. All I knew was it was 2 names and ended in .ca....but after weeks of effort, I found it!), thinking that, FOR SURE, they'd have them available for purchase. NO. They don't. I feel like a failure. I need these socks. I'm *this* close to pulling into a back alley in the middle of the night with a $20..."hey man, i just need one pair. Just one pair...." I'm a junkie.

So, in the interest of my sanity and keeping me out of jail (I'm pretty sure whoever I run in to in a dark alley will not understand that I really **am** just after socks...), could someone please tell me where the heck to buy more Gagou Tagou socks?

My secret hope is that someone from the company will stumble upon this post and send me baskets of the socks. Hey, it could happen. Especially if someone were to tell them about this post. I'm just sayin.

More AJ pics!

http://ajhenderson.shutterfly.com/