I was thinking about posting this photo with the caption “Toddler’s First Goatse” but then I thought to myself, self, just how fast do you want to go to hell anyway?


Hey, how about we have us a photo namin’ contest? I mean, I’ve got this assembly-line brain drain going on from being stuck at home doing the same tasks over and over and over: feed baby, change baby, pry embedded LEGO from the arch of my foot, feed baby, change baby, run a load of 4828951 burp rags through the laundry, feed baby, change baby, fantasize about driving to the hospital in order to locate the nurse who scoldingly informed JB and I that bottle-fed babies should be able to go 4 hours between feedings and punching her in the face, etc, and really, I could use some fun distractions.

The rules are thusly: you post your best title idea in the comments section, and I’ll pick my favorite based on a complicated set of criteria involving a decision grid and Excel pivot table (what? Just because I don’t actually know what a pivot table is doesn’t mean I won’t use one). The winner receives a $50 Amazon gift certificate.

It’s just like Ree’s photo contests, except the prize is way less awesome! And the photo isn’t exactly frameworthy, either!

One entry per person, leave your email address so I know how to get in touch with you, contest ends sometime between tonight and tomorrow. Remember, crude porn references only send the parent to hell, not the impartial, innocent internet reader.


UPDATE: contest now closed!

I gingerly stepped on the scale the other morning and learned that I’m down about twenty pounds since Dylan’s birth. I think I gained about 40 overall during this pregnancy — although it’s hard to be completely sure, every time I was weighed at my doctor’s office they recorded my weight in kilograms which allowed me to pretend I was dangerously underweight and therefore required a nightly infusion of Tillamook Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream for the baby’s sake — so according to my mouthbreathing math skills, that leaves, uh, carry the 5 . . . divide the integrators by the number-eighters . . . twenty more pounds to go. In order to be at my pre-Dylan-pregnancy weight, that is — I take some vague solace in the fact that I am actually already at my pre-Riley-pregnancy weight and therefore it’s like I hardly gained anything at all! Or something.

I don’t feel overly obsessed with the number I see on the scale but I am definitely not feeling the love for my current body shape, particularly the way my clothes fit over it. I would say my pants are currently leaving me looking, well, muffin-toppy, except that would really be doing a grave disservice to delicious muffins everywhere, who never asked to be compared to the partially-deflated dirigible that is clinging to my waistline. My post-op midsection has Dunlop Disease, which as you know is where your belly dun lop over your C-section scar, and if that didn’t just make you hot and bothered I don’t know WHAT WILL.

Judging by oh-so-pleasant night sweating that’s still going on (seriously, is there anything about the postpartum period that ISN’T disgusting?) I’m probably continuing to slowly shed water weight, but I know from experience there’s only one way to regain the ability to pull on a pair of non-elastic pants without lying on the floor and crying afterwards, and sadly it’s not through sitting on my couch hooked to a tiramisu IV drip.

Thanks to my devil-food-may-care attitude during pregnancy (which I don’t regret one bit, by the way, as far as I’m concerned the only excuse that’s better than pregnancy for eating whatever the hell you want at all hours of the day is learning of your imminent death) I have a lot of bad eating habits to kick, which I’m trying to address with baby steps. I mean, you don’t just stop eating ice cream overnight, a person could suffer serious medical consequences trying to do such a thing. You have to step down in stages: first, you move to ice cream featuring one flavor, then the low fat variety, and finally, fat-free frozen yogurt with Splenda, until it all tastes so disappointing you may as well just sadly gnaw a carrot during American Idol.

I’m learning that there is a vast difference between dieting without a newborn and dieting with a newborn, and while neither are a festive nontop party in your mouth, the latter sucks out loud. When a person finally manages to get their fussy baby to take a nap, they should be allowed unrestricted access to a feedbag full of Thin Mints, you know? Not some damn salad. Plus, there’s the logistics factor — the truth is, it takes more work to prepare a healthy meal than a crappy one, and if you’re trying to eat with one hand while the other continually crams a binky back in someone’s whine-hole, well, am I going to make myself a nice turkey sandwich with a side salad, or rabidly devour 485721 Saltines dipped in peanut butter? GUESS WHICH.

Also, don’t even get me started on the near-impossibility of finding time to exercise with two children under three feet tall. Jesus. I did about 20 minutes of Turbo Jam last night at 8:30 PM while Riley was in bed and Dylan whizzed back and forth in his swingamajig, and all I could think was, what would I rather be doing at 8:30 PM? OH, I don’t know, ANYTHING AT ALL.

It’s going to be a bitch to get back in shape this time, is what I’m saying. But I’m making the commitment to do so, because I want to feel as good as I did here, and I don’t want to wait as long this time to make those changes.

Today: 153 pounds. Clothing size: a bursting-at-the-seams 10. Tomorrow: ?

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