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Mountain Mama's weight trails

By Amber

As I suffer through my post-baby diet, it has been confirmed to me that I am bereft of a certain quality. I think some people call it a metabolism. Oh, and self-control would also help just a little.

Fortunately for me, I love to exercise and it is this fact alone that gives me some hope I'll be able to fit into a skimpy bathing suit again someday. Well, at least a one-piece. I am nothing if not realistic about my limitations.

A popular activity for Colorado moms is hitting the trail with their babies and I have been part of a "mountain mama" hiking club since my daughter Hadley was born two years ago. Since the birth of my son Bode, I have been itching to get back into it and recently took him on his first trek.

As we started hiking, a friendly gal struck up a conversation with me and a few of us soon started chatting along the trail. It didn't take long for the conversation to turn to new babies, motherhood and weight gain. An exceedingly petite gal commented, "Yeah, I topped out at 130 pounds when I was pregnant."

I bit my tongue -- the last time I weighed that was in second grade.

Then came the follow-up comment from another gal. "Well, check this out: I was huuuuge and weighed XXX by the time I gave birth."

She quoted my pre-pregnancy weight. Not my weight when I got pregnant with Bode (when I hadn't yet lost my last 10 pounds) but my Hadley pre-pregnancy weight.

I thought it best not to contribute to that particular conversation for fear of the outcome (i.e. eradicating all those skinny broads on the trail by accidentally sitting on them or something).

And so, a note to all those people out there who don't give birth and walk out in their pre-pregnancy jeans or to anyone who's ever struggled with her weight. This thought was shared with me by my friend and former roommate Kristy, a gorgeous, Rubenesque gal:

" 'Nothing tastes as good as being sexy feels.' This was said to me once by a friend with a perfectly fit dancer's body in the course of a discussion on eating and exercising.

I don't think she will ever know how sexy those chocolate-frosted Hostess Doughnuts were this morning."

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

Timely transitions of the toddler

By Amber

Before I got married, I vowed when I had kids I'd never be the kind of lame person who spent my weekends working on my house and yard. I would, instead, head to the hills whilst hiking and biking to my little married heart's content.

Guess what? Reality bites. Work is all we've done lately as we prepare for Junior's arrival this month. Landscaping has been eating up the majority of our time the past couple of months. I have vowed that if we ever build a house again, I will ensure we have ample provisions to pay good money for someone else to do it. After all, that's my mantra when it comes to sewing; why not yardwork as well?

Our biggest project last weekend was painting Junior's room. I previously had great aspirations for his abode--stellar wall hangings, borders and cooler-than-cool chalkboard paint for him to scribble above his bed. Guess what? Reality bites. In the end, we just slapped down a coat of paint and called it good. Perhaps if we wax ambitious in the next few weeks we'll drag ourselves back in there. But it's not like he really cares what his nursery looks like, right?

As part of our painting process, we moved all the furniture out of Junior's room, including a couple of twin beds. We placed one in Haddie's room beside her crib while we painted. When it came time for her nap, she was thrilled to see a "big-girl bed" in her room. And then I got a "brilliant idea" (mind you, brilliance is relative with paint fumes on the brain): I would choose this month of all months to transition her to a real bed from her crib.

It started great! We snuggled up in the bed, kissed bye-bye and I walked out. She started to get up to explore her room but I reminded her one of the privileges of sleeping in a big-girl bed is actually staying in it. And she did. A half hour later, I peeked in on her and she was curled up in a little ball. I was so touched by how she was growing up that I dragged my husband Jamie into her room to see. "Touching," Mr. Monotone warily stated. He was against my ambitions from the start.

We continued painting but before long we heard her cries again. "She'll just go back down. It's way too early," I prophesied. And it was. But the different denominator this time was she was not sequestered in her jail....errr...crib.

Mr. Monotone cast me an "I told you so glance" and suddenly my stupidity struck me: why the crap would I want to set the world's worst sleeper loose? Ever since her suicide attempt a couple of months ago when she launched out of her crib in rebellion over Binky's "mysterious disappearance," the only thing we have going for us is she's resolved that life is better on the Inside than the Outside. Prison breaks only result in pain and suffering.

And so I stuck her back in her crib. And she slept through the night. At least I think she did. All I know is she wasn't knocking down my door or disassembling her bedroom. At the rate we're going, she'll probably get parole in six months. Or better yet, six years?....

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley, with another tempest on the way in July.

Ahhhh, the guilt!

By Amber

My latest panic attack involves the stack of photographs I have hidden on the top shelf in the kitchen. Pictures of my daughter Haddie from the time she was born. Mounds of them. Sitting. Doing nothing.Telling no stories. Not beautifully displayed.

At a past playgroup, my friend Suzy brought scrapbooks of her daughter, Addeson. Her mom has spent hours, days, lifetimes - scrapbooking every detail of her granchildren's lives. The pages that unfolded were gorgeous memoirs of Adde's first year of life. And all I could think of was sweet Haddie's collection gathering dust.

This whole crappy scrapbooking craze is making those of us who are artsy-fartsy challenged look bad. Woman around me are obsessed with it. They pull scrapbooking all-nighters, go on scapbooking retreats, and hit scrapbooking conventions. I just don't get it. Is it abnormal that I'd rather be marinated in sweat while lugging Haddie up a mountain instead of placidly capturing these memories in an album?
 
I don't know the answer. Either way, Haddie will probably be in therapy for years just for having me as a mother. With that said, why would I want to memoralize such trauma? Finally, a loophole, a way out!

I feel better already.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley, with another tempest on the way in July. 

To Scream or Not to Scream, That is the Question

by Amber

With each passing potty break, I am reminded that baby number two is that much closer to making his entrance into the world. And as much as I try to call upon the Powers That Be to deliver this child via a blessed, mythical creature called the stork (that some woman in labor inevitably conjured up), I know the reality.

But I also know the options: to have pain or not to have pain. Though I'm all for anyone who wants to attempt the former, I have a great testimony of the latter.

My husband Jamie is fully supportive of epidurals, primarily because he knows my level of pain is intricately connected to the out-lashings he receives during labor. He has always understood that. During our prenatal classes we watched a video of two babies being born: one naturally, the other with painkillers.

Following the presentation, our pro-natural doula asked the class: "Now, can you tell me the difference between the two deliveries?" She was obviously searching for anti-drug answers such as how the woman having the epidural was hooked up to lots of wires.

My blessed, blessed honey raised his hand and brazenly announced, ""Uhhh, yeah. The woman with the epidural was smiling." We were obviously blacklisted by the doula after that one.

A recent playdate with my friend Dawn and her little boy caused further reflection as she extolled the virtues of natural childbirth.  "I had an epidural with my first but I couldn't feel a thing and it delayed labor," she explained. "But with my second baby, I didn't take anything and he was born much quicker."

She then recommended a book, The Bradley Way, which allegedly gives wonderful insights into the entire process. Now, I had a friend loan that book to me when I was pregnant the first time around. I deemed it was not a good sign when I almost fainted at the graphic birthing pictures. Once I recovered, I admittedly didn't get too far into the book when I discovered the Table of Contents was bereft of certain key words such as "epidural" and "painkillers."

Don't get me wrong...I'm not some kind of wimp. Anyone with a passion for athletics enjoys a certain level of pain. But call me crazy--climbing a 14,000-foot peak with my legs and lungs burning is a good kind of pain. Having mind-numbing contractions course through your body as your very innards feel as though they are being ripped from you; this is my definition of not good pain. 

When Dawn asked me what I would do differently with this labor, I gave her my honest answer: "I plan to have more drugs. Sooner."

I'm not out to prove anything this time around to see how long I can cope before reaching the breaking point. I'm going in already broken. 

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley, with another tempest on the way in July. 

Come and play, everything's A-OK

by Amber

My daughter, Hadley, is slowing starting to take interest in the children's programs on TV. Since most of them drive me bonkers (with Tinky Winky rumored to be <gasp> gay, not to mention overstuffed, psychedelic "Boobah" that is crack cocaine for kids), I have not encouraged her to watch. Go figure.

Except for "Sesame Street." Now that is a program I can get my hands around. I have visions of self-taught Hadley calling out numbers with the Count and singing the alphabet with Big Bird and Friends. Sure, Ernie and Burt may have more than a platonic relationship (what's up with the community bubble bath scenes?) but Haddie doesn't care. Just so long as she is at a fifth grade reading level by kindergarten...that's all I have to ask.

As we were driving to the grocery store the other day, I told her that if she was a good girl, she would get a cookie from the bakery. (I am not above bribery as a parent.) As I said that, she took her little hands and started cramming them into her mouth whilst making an avaricious sound. I was a bit shocked, so I said it again: "Cookie," followed by a repeat performance.

And then finally, I clued in. "Hadley, are you the Cookie Monster?"

Delight followed my understanding as she continued to demolish her imaginary cookie.

Nice to see public programming is helping her get one-step closer to "Child Prodigy Status."

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous-unraveling mother to Hurricane Hadley, with another tempest on the way in July.