Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” With that in mind, please allow this stinky, messy blood clot of a blog post to commemorate my dear loinfruit’s 3-month birthday and also my triumphant return to running. Because these days, you get either a shitty blog post from me or no blog post at all. And then what would you guys do? Cry, probs. In the shower. While scrubbing yourself fervently and sobbing, “Unclean! Unclean!”
Anybetyoudothatanyway, my, my, how time flies. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? This time last year, I was busy trying to get knocked up (picture it). Now? I have a 3-month old and I am taking serious precautions to avoid getting knocked up again…is four condoms enough or should we make it five? We have a friend who got pregnant only 4 weeks after giving birth to her first. I don’t know how sex even works when your fuck parts still look like something out of a bad, bad horror movie, but, hey, I’m not one to judge. (HAH.)
So, remember waaaay back in that first paragraph before I burned into your mind and retinas that smoking hot mental image? We were talking about milestones. Peanut (but you have to say it with a thick ol’ drawl like Nic Cage in Wild At Heart), is no longer a newborn, and I ran three miles without stopping. At an 11:00 pace. But just forget that last part and focus on the three miles.
But first, TEH BEBEH FIREND.
Fortunately, the 8-weeks rage has mellowed considerably, and she’s back to being a friendly and non-schizophrenic baby. My favorite kind. And she is so grown up! It sounds stupid, but I’d kind of gotten used to caring for this tiny, uninvolved blob who barely acknowledged my presence. But now, when I go into her room in the morning (AT 4-FUCKING-30 IN THE MORNING) and she recognizes me and smiles, it occurs to me that she might actually like me. And is a being capable of liking.
We successfully made it through another growth spurt, during which the Fürstin Schätzchen clawed madly for my boob every 20 minutes or so. (And her tiny little finger nails are like razor blades. Like kitten claws but non-retractable.) I was all like, “You can’t possibly be hungry again!” And she was all like, “Don’t tell me my business, devil woman!” And then I tried to remember why I thought it was so important to breastfeed in the first place. Formula started sounding like a pretty good idea. Or tuna water. Whichever. (Just kidding, I remember why: weight loss. I’m on an 837,000 calorie diet and I don’t gain weight. I’ma breastfeed ’til she’s 14.)
She sleeps pretty consistently until 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning, which I’m told is tremendous. Ungrateful noob that I am, I complained about it.
Also, her hair: YAY SHE HAS SOME. Her bald spot in the front has migrated around to the back, but she has hair nevertheless.
Also, also, Sophie: Sophie, apparently, is the trendiest baby chew toy on the planet. For the low, low price of $24.95, you can have a toy that, if made for a dog, would probably only cost $1.95.
Anyway, maybe it’s worth the money because it kept her occupied for nearly 25 minutes yesterday. (For comparison: she tuned out Naked Lunch after like, five minutes.) Every parent should have a Sophie. No parent should buy a Sophie. Let someone buy one for you. Someone will. I promise.
Okay, back to running, which is the reason I imagine some of you keep crawling back to this partial-birth abortion of a blog every once in a while.
I did run three miles without stopping. However, on the same day, I stopped by Sweaty Kid’s blog and read about how she ran 12 miles in the icy Juneau buttcrack of dawn and it made me feel slightly less badass.
I did mine in interval-form, on the treadmill (but I always do a 1% incline because it better simulates actual running…ryyyight SK?). I just did a simple 5-4-3-2-1, starting at an 11:30 pace and working down to a 9:40 for the last minute. And then repeated it. It felt…pretty good. Not easy. Moderately hard. So now that I’ve tackled the elusive 5k, I feel like I am officially making progress. And there I go celebrating mediocrity again. Blow me.
I still can’t break free of the timing devices, despite how demotivating it is when my “all out” is a 9:40 pace. (Or can your “all out” be a pace you can only hold for 15 seconds? Because in that case, I can run “all out” at an 8:00 pace. Woo?)
Last, and this has nothing to do with anything but I still feel it is worth mentioning: I been hot-tubbin’ like a motherfucker. I spent the last three wretched months of my pregnancy in the dead of an Indiana winter and I couldn’t go near a hot bath. The unfairness. My absolutely favorite thing to do now that I’m not pregnant anymore (besides drink) is to take scalding hot baths. So hot my skin turns pink and I’m sweating when I get out, which ultimately defeats the purpose of the bath but it feels…so…good.
Yeah. I’m pretty sure this is not what Hemingway had in mind.