Will the Real Teresa Please Stand Up

So, I have begun my path on the road to recovery. To claw myself out of the depths of post-partum depression back to (hopefully) feeling like myself again. And as I say and think those words, I wonder, "What does that even mean?" The last time I remember feeling like myself was when I had no human being to rely on me to do that little task of sustaining their life. (I hope you're sensing the tone, cause there is one).

Who will emerge when the dust of hormones settle? What are the parts of me that I will choose to leave behind because they no longer fit as my new role as "mommy"? What will I keep? What will I hold onto, refusing to let go, kicking and screaming as God continues to refine me? And why does this refining process have to be so freaking painful?!?! Why can't refining be a comforting process that feels like getting a foot massage? Or as satisfying as eating toaster strudel? (which I'm officially off of, btw).


I knew that becoming a mom wouldn't be a walk in a field of daisies along calm streams and toaster strudel waiting for me at the end of the path (*sigh*), but I didn't expect the identity crisis.

I Haven't Lost Any Weight While Writing This Post

I've been struggling with my weight since having a baby. There, I've said it. I've been really meditating on this since reading Kelli's blog, which is some really good food for thought, pun intended.

Back when I was pregnant, my doctor would say to me, "Be careful about your weight gain because the more you gain the more you'll have to lose." As I responded to her with a simple, "Okay," I was really thinking, "Don't bother me with your 'logic', lady. Your logic really interferes with my desire to eat a Whopper the minute I leave this office."

Today Paul dragged me I went with Paul to the gym. Even though I know that working out takes time, I was quite disappointed when the fat hadn't melted off my legs after 30 minutes on the lateral bike and my arms weren't chiseled after 30 minutes of lifting weights. As I walked out to the car, there was this magazine with a large headline, "Getting back to your pre-baby body." I immediately grabbed that magazine and opened the page to the article and was just as quickly disappointed to find such sensible headings such as, "Diet and Exercise" "Give it Time" and "Eat Breakfast and Break out That Blender."

I realized something about myself. Every time I see one of those articles, I pick it up hoping for some magic cure to losing weight. I probably know what it's going to say, but I fool myself every time thinking that maybe it will say something different that will cost me very little money and effort, and I emphasize the effort part. Here's what I don't want to do: I don't want to give it time, I don't want to stop eating strawberry toaster strudel, I don't want to exercise 3-5 times a week, and I certainly don't want to break out my blender. I also don't want to lose weight by dangerous surgery or taking some weird pill. I'm that person who is hoping for some magic lose-weight cure-all that won't hurt my body but the pounds will just melt away. -sigh-

So, it's back to the gym. Hello sensibility, bye-bye toaster strudel (o, how I've loved thee). Hello sweat, good-bye sitting around on my butt. I will set my sights to eating healthier (maybe gluten-free again since that's what I should be doing), working out more and dreaming of foods I really shouldn't eat. However, I still refuse to break out my blender. That's just silly.

This Kid Means Business

Things My Husband Should Make For You, But Probably Never Will

Unless you are a friend and we have you over for dinner. Which we do quite often, so it really does pay to be my friend. I'm okay with being used for my husband's cooking. I just want to win the popularity contest.

So, tonight, my good ol' hubby is making his amazing Chicken Cordon Bleu. He's not making it for me, he's making it for a friend (see, it pays to be his friend, too). My husband is a pretty amazing cook. He's always been a better cook than me. He's better than me at most things except for music. Music's mine and he can't have it.

Anyway, it reminded me of a story I thought I'd share. When we first got married, all I really knew how to cook was spaghetti. And not the Ragu stuff. Granted, I don't make it from fresh tomatoes, but the ability season tomato sauce is a skill. It really is, so say I. Well, in our first week of marriage, I decided to venture and make him Tator Tot Hotdish. So, I make this dish and it was AWFUL! It wasn't a casserole, it was some sort of milky soupy thing with veggies, bland meat and soggy tator tots, with cheese on top. I cried and he ate, declaring it's goodness. He even ate a second helping and took some for work the next day. Although I knew that he was suffering by eating this crap on a plate, I thought, "Oh, how romantic. He eats my food even when it's bad." (Later on down the road in our marriage I realized that my husband is a "waste-not, want-not" kind of guy. He'll eat anything as horrific as it may be as long we're not wasting the meat that cost us money.)

While I was struggling to make a simple casserole, he's making shrimp scampi, chicken cordon bleu, stuffed peppers, homemade french fries and the list just goes on and on. There's nothing this man can't cook. He honestly makes the best turkey at Thanksgiving.

Tonight, he's making on of my favorite meals and I'll come home from work for chicken, garlic mashed potatoes and sauteed green beans w/ a salad. And food is so exciting to me, I thought I'd blog about it.

**Update: Dinner was awesome.