It's not you, it's me

One of the scariest things I've ever done was plug some of my favorite beauty items into the skin deep site. It was downright terrifying to see how many chemicals I put into my body on a daily basis. Granted, some things (mascara!) are pretty much impossible to find chemical-free, but I have been trying to come up with some eco-friendly substitutions for my beauty regimen. There are lots of great moisturizers, makeup companies and cleansing products that are at least attempting to use more natural than synthetic ingredients. But, I have to draw the line somewhere. And that somewhere is my armpits.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been using an aluminum-free, crunchy, green (it's literally green) deodorant. Not an antiperspirant, mind you, because the aluminum is what prevents you from sweating like a pig. Aluminum is said to possibly cause cancer, Alzheimer's, and other assorted party fouls. Although there hasn't been any real scientific proof of a causal link, I'd rather hedge my bets, especially now that I've got a youngin' depending on me to bring the sand toys to the playground. I've never been a huge sweater, so I doubted that it would be that different for me sans antiperspirant. I decided to ditch my dirty Secret and go organic, y'all.

I didn't really notice anything the first day or so. But, about three days in, I was at a restaurant and I could have sworn that the guy standing next to me had just walked off a basketball court. There was a vile stench all around. A few days later I smelled it again and wondered when the hell people in San Francisco stopped showering. Dirty hippies! Finally, this morning I was changing the big/little guy's diaper when I caught an awful whif. It wasn't poop, it was ME! I had a full on identity crisis. I smell? Like a homeless person in Miami? When did this happen? Have I been smelling for weeks? Am I a hippie now? I am mentally cataloging all the people I've hugged recently and may have utterly repulsed. Damn hormones. Foiled again!

So. I'm starting to think maybe smelling like an onion factory is worse than all the potential, unproven harms of good old, working deodorant. Then again, since I can be a little obsessive (just a tad) once I set my mind to something, I'm going to work my way through this list to try to find a deodorant that doesn't leave me friendless. Any ideas are appreciated, especially by my clothing.

Got kegels?

Childbirth, the gift that keeps on giving...

Why is it that my kid has been incapable of napping for more than an hour straight in his crib of late but, sitting in the mall parking lot this morning, in an increasingly hot car parked in the sun, with an anxious mommy who is very afraid she might pee in her pants for the second time this week (yeah, that happened), he managed to sleep for 90 minutes and counting? Oh, little boy, even in your sleep you continue to outsmart me.

You really haven't lived till you've considered peeing in your kid's bottle. Constantly refreshing Facebook to check new status updates only gets you so far when your bladder is screaming at you. The only thing more precious than the sweet relief of a sleeping baby is the sweet relief of a toilet. But, I stand by the edict that you never, ever wake a sleeping baby.

The way I saw it, I had four options:

A) Pee myself and just buy new pants when I (finally) go in to the mall.

B) Have my husband drive 20 minutes to sit with the kid while I did my business.

C) Pee outside the car, pretending not to see all the hundreds of people in the parking lot who are also doing their civic duty by taking advantage of winter sales. This, of course, was my husband's suggestion-he could basically open the door a crack and mission accomplished. Stupid penis envy.

D) Continuously text my husband while he's hard at work to distract myself from seeing yellow and thinking happy peeing thoughts.

Obviously, I chose A. Macy's was having a 30% off jeans sale.

Dog Days of Denim

Maybe we need to start from a different baseline

So yesterday I went through the joy of shopping for new jeans. I find jean shopping to be second only to bathing suit shopping in the humiliation department. I spent the last week fighting my husband's suggestions to go get "some jeans that fit." Finally, I caved realizing that at least I'd get some new jeans out of the horror show. Although he doesn't seem to care about any other items of clothing, Mr. Schneed is compelled by a greater force to comment on every single pair of dungarees* I own.

It all started a few months ago with some confusion on the part of my body and my wardrobe as to what fits post-baby. While my pre-baby clothing is in theory the same size as before, in reality much of it has been stretched out due to my refusal to wear maternity gear for much of the pregnancy. So...those pre-pregnancy jeans now look both tight and saggy at the same time. Sexy!

Although I've been buying new jeans every few months since having Mr. Monk, I've also been losing weight slowly but steadily. Other than boyfriend jeans, which those of us with hips can't rock without looking like a dock worker, most jeans look better fitted. Therefore, most of my jeans look a little not good.

One of the friends I saw in NYC who has a four month old baby asked me when she's likely to get back to her old body. As I was saying that it takes a (looong) while, she turned to me and wondered aloud if I was at my old self yet. Well, clearly I must not look it! Apparently, everything on the body does not just go back to the way it was before. Even if you're at the same weight or lower, things settle and hang and jiggle differently. Fun times. But, I birthed a baby, and I'll be proud of my body no matter what. (And I'll keep reminding myself of this on the beach next month).

As for the jeans, unfortunately, there is only so much they can do for the shape, length and size of the legs, hips and butt they contain. Too bad there's no store that sells some newer, firmer models.

*My mom cannot call them jeans. Once dungarees, always dungarees.

Off and running

Last night we had a mini dinner party with 2 other couples and their four boys (five boys age 5 and under-check, please!). Mr. Monk loved being with the big boys. So much so that today he took his first step! Our little baby is becoming a man. Soon we'll need a lasso. Though, really, could he possibly get any faster than he is now? His crawl is like lightning. Blink and he's across the room and out the doggie door. He's less of a baby each and every day. Where is Evie Garland and her magic fingers when I need her?

While walking Tony when we got home after our testosterone-fueled dinner, he took off running and dragged me behind him up to the middle of a steep hill, in between two street lights. In the pitch black darkness, I turned around to give him privacy to do his business. I was minding some business of my own, texting and whatnot, when I started to notice some little bits of brown running toward me. The dog's poop had broken apart into about eight pieces and started rolling down the hill. Tootsie rolls of shit were flying everywhere. As it was the neighborly thing to do (and I was afraid of ruining my new boots on the walk home), I ran around with my little iphone flashlight trying to pick them all up. The fun never, ever ends.

Today we went to the last of our playgroup baby birthday parties. This one was a goodie--no less than three different kinds of baked goods and lots of candy. I kept throwing the wrappers away after every bite so I couldn't keep track of what I ate. And then I remembered that the dress I was planning to wear to a wedding this weekend barely fit me pre-pregnancy and I haven't tried it on since. What's another white chocolate covered oreo going to hurt? I'm finding the worst part of weaning to be the fact that I now have to actually exercise to burn calories. The fueling another life from your body and being able to eat whatever the hell you want, whenever the hell you want? Magic. Maybe there is something to extended breastfeeding after all. Or maybe I should just drag my ass back to spinning.

Why yes, I'd love another piece of cookie...

Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em

I think it's time. Truthfully, I can't even believe it's still happening. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even want to anymore. Both of us have been crying about it. The dog days of nursing are over.

Yesterday, for the first time, the boy up and bit me hard as he could. It was as though he was trying to tell me, ENOUGH ALREADY; I'm over you. After hearing so many stories about the anguish, physical and mental, of weaning a baby who can't quit the boob, I know I'm so lucky. And yet, there is no relief. No excitement. Only sads. What the hell? Where is the woman who couldn't wait to get her body back? Maybe I can't function without my oxytocin fix. Do people become addicted to breastfeeding? I need a new vice (and a new excuse to eat as much dessert as I want).

I think tomorrow might be the first day when cow's milk is the only milk on the menu. I have been feeling some guilt about weaning right before cold/flu season, but that can last through March. I know I can't. My fluctuating hormones combined with Mr. Monk's four incoming teeth from hell have made this one awesome week in the Schneed household. No wonder the Mr. decided to catch the flu. Fun times.

So, now I get to go bra shopping, right? At least the empty inside comes with a pretty, lacy outside.

And, I'm pretty sure the babe will be able to find himself a new source of nourishment...Mexican!

That's How I Roll

She stole my workout outfit

You know how people always say that the best thing to do when you're tired is to exercise? Well, I never believed them either. Why would I want to go and make myself more exhausted by working out? But, then I had a baby and was more tired than I ever knew I could be. So tired that I regularly went into the shower with my glasses on. So tired that I had the vocabulary of a 12 year old. So tired that I once fell asleep while pumping. Once. But, after I got the OK from my doctor, I dragged my tired (and fat) ass to the gym. Not just any gym, a mom-friendly gym with day care. Nothing motivates you to work harder like hearing your baby screaming in the back room and knowing you don't have to go and get him. I went with some of the other moms from my amazing playgroup (still going strong 10 months later!) and we encouraged each other. The other ladies in the class were so impressed that we could tell our little ones apart based on their cries. I still can hear that wail when I close my eyes, even though Mr. Monk hasn't cried like that in months.

I became obsessed with spin class. I loved the sense of camaraderie in the class--we were all going over that hill together. I also really appreciated the constant support and compliments the teachers gave us--I was doing a good job, wasn't I? At least I knew how to ride a bike! During those first few months of motherhood, I was so happy to not have to think at all for 45 minutes. No mouth to feed, no diaper to change and no gigantic laundry pile to stare at me expectantly. I just needed to push and pull my legs through the cycle, one after the other. The repetition was addictive. Plus, some of the teachers played some kick-ass music that got us all feeling like we were dancing on our bikes. I've never loved Rihanna or Michael Jackson more. It was my time.

I stopped going over the summer after we went away one month and then again the next. My husband decided that I had to do the insanity workout program with him because he knew he'd never do it by himself. While we didn't totally finish it, we gave it a good run. Between four weddings and lots o' travel, it was impossible to keep up with a 6 day a week workout. Too much life to live. I still do the insanity workouts every few days, but my desire to exercise has all but evaporated. Until today.

I went back to spin and it was like a homecoming. All those endorphins. All that pop music. I realized that there is something to working out around others and not just staring at a man screaming at you through your laptop. It somehow just feels more effective when others can see you sweat. And? Not even remotely tired now at 11 pm. Not sure that's such a good thing.

Insane in the Membrane

Mr. Schneed and I are now on Day 6 of the Insanity workout. Only one more day until we get a break! How did this happen?! I have never worked out six days a week in my life. Even before my wedding I only kicked it up to four and I felt like a maniac. I just keep thinking that this is the best (only?) time for me to do something like this since I'm unlikely to have a break while the boss naps at my next job.

My main issue, other than that it is the worst pain I've ever willingly felt, is that I hate doing it with the mister. He talks out loud during the hardest parts! Can you imagine anything more annoying? The last thing I want when I am sweating more than I ever thought possible is for my husband to tell me that he can't believe how much I am sweating. Listening to him moan and groan, not to mention watching him flail out of the corner of my eye, makes me laugh. And sometimes I pee myself from laughing and moving so hard. Just a little. But still. Childbirth- the gift that keeps on giving.

Let's Go Crazy

After seeing so many beautiful bodies and beautiful people at this beautiful place, my husband decided that he needs to do something drastic to get in shape. And by he, I mean we because he isn't so good at the self-motivation. So, I was informed today that I will be doing the insanity workout over the next 60 days. My first thought was um, no. But, I have started to realize lately that breastfeeding isn't quite the workout it used to be. Apparently, the jig is up and I can't keep eating muffins and cupcakes every day and expect it to go right to the baby. I enjoy myself a good old endorphin rush now and again, so I figured I might as well try it. How bad could the first lesson be?

Pretty damn nuts, as it turns out. Before you start the program, you are advised to take a fitness test, which consists of 25 minutes of pure torture. Ostensibly, you are supposed to keep track of how many reps of each exercise you complete so that you can compare your results with any subsequent fitness tests you perform after beginning the regimen. Unfortunately, I was too concerned with the act of breathing while my heart was exploding to remember how to count. Basically, I failed the test. Guess that means I'm not ready for insanity, right?

The thing is, I kind of want to challenge myself. Since having Mr. Monk, I have regularly been going to spin but haven't stepped it up at all. This might actually be what I need to tighten things up without a trainer. Trainers scare me. I just hate the idea of someone telling me what I am doing wrong while I'm wearing shorts. That sounds like my worst nightmare--and then to pay $50/hour for that pleasure. No tanks. I'm not making any promises about finishing the 60 days, but I think I can at least try the real first day. That is, of course, assuming I can walk tomorrow.

Now with a side of eye candy

We just arrived at our fancy pants hotel in Maui after a relaxing, chill, DIY few days in the more rustic north shore Kauai. The difference between these two experiences is pretty stark. In Kauai, I felt positively chic simply for having put on mascara or a bra (I swear that island must ban the sale of bras because there was nary one in sight). You must chill there because if you didn’t you would go completely nuts. We did a whole lot of nothing—in the form of sitting on the lanai (this word will forever remind me of the Golden Girls), teaching Mr. Monk to “swim” in the pool, eating tuna at every meal (mecury, shmercury), hiking down treacherous paths to secluded beaches carrying chairs, diapers, clothing, bottles, and various other sundries that remained untouched, unappreciated and yet still had to be carried back up. All in all, a damn fine way to enjoy life for a few days—and my skin is all dewy from the near 100% humidity.

However.

When I walked down to the pool area here in Maui, I immediately felt pale, round and afraid to be more than arm’s distance from my cover up. The first thing I noticed was the bronzed backside of a glamazon in a teeny bikini. I couldn’t help but stare at her ass and wonder how one achieves such a feat. Suddenly, she turned around and I saw that she must have been at least 7 months pregnant!!!! This woman is carrying around an almost fully formed little person and yet still looks nicer from behind than I’ll ever look. Oh well, at least there are free cookies in my room! And spin class at 8 am. Which will make me happier? If I go for both do they cancel each other out? I’ll be pondering these and other pressing questions while pretending to read at the pool.

On totally unrelated note—
Reason number 568 how you know you married the right man: he reads through the NY Times Wedding Section to see if your ex-boyfriend, who is getting married today, is listed in there because he “didn’t want you to find it first and have it ruin your day.” The ex’s wedding wasn’t listed but how nice of Mr. Schneed to look, eh?

Calling All Hot Mamas

So, how exactly does intimacy work when you're married with an infant? Surely, nothing screams romance like the smell of spit up on the sheets. And any partner would be totally turned on by bags under the eyes and the fact that the same outfit has been worn three days straight, right? When you're the primary source of entertainment, nourishment and general safekeeping for a tiny human, it's easy to let yourself go. Your sexual self becomes like a grade school crush-someone you used to care about, but now can hardly remember. To get in the mood and perhaps rejoin the land of the living, I've created a little how-to guide for new mamas looking to glam up:

1. Leg hair be gone- this is probably the most basic of all grooming steps and can go along way towards making you feel sexy, or at least less hairy. If your legs haven't seen the light of day since sundress season and the hair can be braided at this point, it's time to dust off the razor. Even if you cover them right back up, at least they'll feel smooth and sleek when you run your hands up them or, even better, when someone else does.

2. Wash hair and ditch the ponytail- do not underestimate the amount of food, spit up, drool, snot, etc. that gets into your hair and just stays there. After the lather, rinse, repeat, perhaps you can do the unthinkable and not put it up? If the idea of leaving your hair down for the day is horrifying, it's time to either go get it done or spend a little time with a hairbrush. Styling your hair is one of the easiest ways to change your look, certainly more plausible than dropping the rest of that baby weight by nightfall.

3. Wax on, wax off (not just your eyebrows, ladies!)- much like your legs, grooming your ladyness just helps get you in the mood to show it off. This is the Field of Dreams theory people...

4. Fear not the sex- it's perfectly normal if even the thought of it is less than thrilling. It would probably be strange if you popped out a baby and were ready to go. Although it can seem like you'll never get back to a happy, healthy and satisfying sex life (for a while I thought my husband and I would just be best friends without benefits), it is possible. After all, people have more than one kid somehow. The most important thing to remember is take it slow. Talk with your partner and make sure that you are creating an inviting and sensual atmosphere for your intimate activities, no small feat with a bitty baby. Maybe leave the kids with a sitter for the night? Or take advantage of afternoon naptime? Be sure to forgive yourself if it takes a few weeks or months to get back to feeling like you actually want to have sex, let alone enjoy it. And, as my doctor told me, don't forget the lube!

5. Smile- this is possibly the most important of all. STOP COMPLAINING! No one wants to hear how many times the baby woke up last night and/or vomited all over you. While these factoids may be endlessly entertaining to you, I promise you that no one else cares as much, least of all your significant other who hears it every day. Of course, he wants to know about his spawn, but maybe the color and consistency of the poop talk can be left out for one day. Focus on the positive aspects of parenthood and how it has changed your relationship. Remember why you wanted to create a new life with this person. Also, try not to be so hard on yourself and your body. Your breasts, butt, stomach, thighs and arms may not look the same, but you carried a person for 9+ months. That logic should work for a good ten years. After that, there's always wine.