BlogToFit update

OK so after feeling a little pleased with myself that I didn't go OTT at Thanksgiving (except with the G&Ts.) I made a big step for BlogToFit this week and got on the scales. I also made some big mistakes - I ate McDonald's for dinner last night. Yes, 'Ouch!' said my hips as another 2lbs of pure fast-food fat crashed onto them.


So feeling bad for my innards, I gingerly dusted down the scales this morning and decided today was the day to find out the truth about how much of a Victoria sponge my muffin top (MT) has become.


I did as all my fellow BlogToFitters advise and had a big wee (a horses wee, Dave?) before I stepped on. Plus I went an extra inch to hopefully save some inches, and shaved my legs and under my arms too. Well, all that winter fur must add to 5lbs surely?

Apparently not. Am not quite as beyond my goal weight as I thought I was, but am also a bit shocked at how the lbs have crept on since the summer, when I last weighed myself.

So, here are the stats:

Starting weight: 125lbs (8 stone 9lbs)
Goal weight: 112lbs (8 stone - pre-babies weight)
Weight last week: N/A (Didn't have the guts to get on the scales!)
Weight this week : 125lbs
Weight lost: N/A
Cookies eaten in a week: 4 (This I am very pleased about as it's usually 2 or 3 a day.)
Exercise: Didn't do so well with this. When I went to the gym, it was closed for refurbishments. (Shows I go so infrequently, that I'd missed the notices warning of impending closure.) But, I did play in the snow twice with the kids, dragging them up the sledging hill and running about, sweating in all my Thinsulate, so I figure that would have knocked some of the evil MT off its perch!

I'll update my stats every Wednesday with the others over at BlogToFit, and hopefully I'll see some improvement in the next six months. I haven't set myself a deadline, but it would be nice to feel back to pre-baby weight by next summer.

I've done it before, two years ago, when Monkey was six months old and we were going to England for Christmas to show him off. I was determined to lose all the baby fat and turn up in the UK looking a Yummy-Mummy. And I walked and walked and walked with the double stroller/pushchair until every last baby pound dropped off. (The jetlag though obviously did nada to help achieve said Yummy-Mummy look. I was more Herman blimmin' Munster's twin for the first five days.)

Plus, I piled all the weight back one with one tin of Roses and several Terry's Chocolate Oranges mind you, but, for the few hours as we flew home and kissed our family and friends hello, my muffin top (MT) took a sabbatical. On the flight back to the US though, MT decided to settle his feet nicely atop the desk again and I haven't been able to fire him since.

Until BlogToFit. And now, even though MT is putting up resistance, with the team of support behind me, I feel I might just be able to finally kick that b*stard's ass once and for all!

Can't Cook, Won't Cook?

So, it’s that time of the month again – Book Club and thus today I’ve found myself in a position mostly alien to me; knee deep in cookie dough.

I rarely don the apron (Cath Kidston btw) and I’m more Carlos Solis in the baking department than Bree Van De Kamp. But for Book Club, I have to make the effort and face my kitchen fears.

I’ve mentioned before on this blog that I’d get thrown out if I turned up with boxed cookies, and that’s really not far from the truth. And this I learnt from bitter experience.

Three years ago, after living here for a couple of months, I joined my local chapter of the national moms organisation, Mothers & More. It’s a great group to be part of and gave me the gateway to meeting most of the women I now call friends. But there are unspoken rules to our gatherings. Rules that don’t appear on the mission statement.

Food etiquette.

One of the first evening events I went to was their Book Club. (I hadn’t read the book, but was assured that didn’t matter, as gossip and eating were the main order of the night.) All I had to do was bring a dessert or appetizer to share and show up. Not knowing what kind of treat to bring, I went to a local gourmet market and picked out a sugar laden box of Christmas cookies. (Twas the season n all.)

When I arrived at the host’s house and went into the kitchen, I saw the counter was bursting with edible delights. There was spinach dip and crackers (home-made) brownies (home-made) Molten chocolate cakes (home-made) peanut butter cream pie (home-made) mini meatloaves (home-made) cheese n ham spirals (home-made) oatmeal raisin cookies (home-made) and chocolate chip muffins (home-made).

My heart sank as I sheepishly added my boxed cookies to the mix.

Conversation flowed and everyone started to fill their plates and the wine was poured. I starred in awe as the host laid out little Christmas themed napkins, plates and knives and forks. Even the spoons had Santa on them. Clearly, coming from the UK where a gathering means you are lucky to get a plain white paper plate and a plastic fork, this scene left me gob smacked. (I have since come to realise that this sort of spread complete with holiday themed cutlery (silverware) and matching napkins is completely normal in a US home.)

I thought I had come to her party-of-the-year, not an informal discussion on the Bronte sisters.

The women made me feel really welcome and we to-ed and fro-ed from the kitchen refilling throughout the evening. I quickly realised my mistake in having dinner beforehand.

However, every time I went into the kitchen, I noticed my lurid green Christmas tree cookies remained untouched. I didn’t fancy their chances against this gourmet feast. Three hours passed and the oatmeal raisin cookies were devoured. The spinach dip was all gone and the molten cakes left us with gooey fingers.

Still my cookies remained sealed.

At the end of the night, everyone takes home what’s left of the dishes they bring. I was the only one to bring home exactly what I’d entered the house with. I was crestfallen. I’d failed in the bring-a-dish-to-pass department.

So Him Downstairs had a Christmas cookie in his lunchbox every day after, until they eventually ran out around Chinese New Year! (He reported, that they were, “OK-ish.”)

My lesson was learnt. Though shall never bring store-bought goods to Book Club.

And so the monthly book meetings leave me all of a tizzy in two ways. First, I have to finish the blooming book on time (this is fine when I enjoy it and can race through it, but when we’re doing some sleep-inducing American historical ‘masterpiece’ I barely open the front cover.) And secondly, it means I have to get the Cath out.

The Cath (my apron) and I have become better friends since that first Book Club. And actually she always brings a smile to my face when I wear her, because one of my best friends in the UK sent it to me when I moved Stateside. She said I needed something to wear whilst I baked all the apple pie I was surely going to, now I was a desperate housewife! She was right. Sort of.

So here’s this month’s finished product, hot off the pan so to speak. My very own chocolate chip cookies, Mom/Mum style. (Not exactly all round and perfect, but they're home-made!) No so impressive to all you culinary queens out there, granted. But to me and my little family, they are a miracle worth photographing. Plus they’ll keep me in Book Club for the next month at least.

And Valley Girl I have a tip for you. If you do move to America, whatever you do, make sure you have a decent oven!

Now, who wants a cookie?

Five Star Birth?

Seeings as lovely Tara at From Dawn Till Rusk is asking us for our birthing stories, let me share how having son #1 in the UK versus having son #2 in the USA went...

BIRTH #1 UK

• First call to midwife at local Berkshire NHS hospital, "She's screaming in agony, contracting every 8 minutes, can we come in?" “No, we haven’t got any spare beds. Get her in a nice warm bath and pop on the TENS.”
• Second call to hospital, “She’s wailing. She bit me.” “Has she had a show?” “She’s putting on a bloody show!”
• Fifteenth call to hospital, “She’s in the car. Contracting every five minutes. Is the birthing pool available?” “Not sure. But we might have the ‘Feels Like Home’ room, if you get a move on. It’s Christmas.” Click…burr.
• 9pm: Wave off maternal grandparents and drive the 6 miles in our Peugot 206 via back roads to avoid the traffic (what traffic it’s Sunday night). In between contractions am texting my BF to say, “This is it!”
• 10pm: We’re back home because the maternity ward sister said, if I could walk into the place, I wasn’t ready to be admitted yet.I texted all the way back in outrage!
• 10.20pm: My mum makes us all egg and chips to keep us busy (!)
• 10.35pm: Am back in the Peugot, am sure this IS IT as I can’t even bring myself to text.
• 11pm: Him Downstairs (HD) and the hospital security guard are arguing over parking spaces as I pant, “I don’t give a s**t if you get towed, I’m having a baby!”
• Midnight: We’re back home (again) because although I was wheeled into the maternity ward and crying more than Gwyneth at an Oscar speech, the midwife had announced I was still only 2cm dilated and I couldn’t be admitted until I was 3cm. Grrrr.
• 1.30am: Here we are again. This time I really can’t take it and pure contractual exhaustion has set in. A wonderful midwife takes one look at me and whips me on the pethadine so I can get some sleep. “You’re just in time love,” she says, “I have a lovely bed for you and you can get some rest, else you’ll never push this baby out!” (HD btw is busy counting his change to see if he has enough for the meter).
• 2.30am: Hurrah we reached 3cms! We can stay in. The pethadine was grrreat.
• 3.50pm: After some lovely massages from midwife, some wooziness on the birthing ball and some delightful gas and air, my beautiful firstborn finally waved hello to me daddy and midwife. (Well actually he looked like he’d been 10 rounds with frank Bruno. Bless.) We’re moved away from the sounds of someone else’s labour pains next door and into the ward.
• 4.45pm: A nurse finally offered me a bloody cup of tea!
• 8am: We’re kicked out because they need my bed. We've been clamped.

BIRTH #2 USA
• First prenatal (as they call it here) appointment at my OB’s office: “You can come into the hospital as soon as you start contracting. We’ll be calling you anyhow to see how you’re doing. We can schedule it with the hospital, if you want. Get you booked in for induction in case?” Can I get you anything? Water? Juice?
• !!
• At almost 41 weeks preggers I went in to see my lovely OB and was gutted to discover I was barely effaced and still only 1cm dilated. An induction was booked. “You’re all set!” he said. “I’ll be there, don’t worry” Still not used to idea that the doc I’d seen throughout whole pregnancy would actually see it through to the end.
• 1pm: Come home from doc’s office. Feel crap. Can’t text anyone. (It’s just not that popular round here it seems). Parents are due to go back to UK in 3 days. What if second born doesn’t arrive in time for them to meet him?
• 9pm: Eat pizza. Feel a bit odd. Go to bed.
• 7am: Wake up HD. Say, “Think I’m having a few contractions. Don’t go to work in case.” “Right,” he says. “I’ll just go mow the lawn as this’ll go on for hours won’t it?”
• 9am: Me and my mum are sitting in my bed holding hands as I do my whooshy breathing. HD is nowhere to be found. Couldn’t find my TENS. Anyway my OB’d looked totally blank at me when I asked if I could use one in his hospital.
• 11am: Contractions feel more intense, but I am handling it so feel no need to panic. After all, last time this went on for days.
• Midday: Suggest to HD we call my doctor. “But you’re not even in that much pain yet are you?” he says. Me and my mum refrain from punching him.
• 2pm: Take a shower to relieve back labour and tell HD I really think we can call the doctor because I’m contracting every 4 mins and it’s lunchtime rush hour.
• 2.30pm: “She’s at 4 minutes? You should have bought her in hours ago. We’ll meet you at the hospital.”
• 2.40pm: I throw up. This sent HD into panic mode because I’d thrown up right before I needed to push with son # 1.
• 3pm: I can’t climb up into his ridiculously huge 4x4. My whole family hoist me in. Am seriously feeling like am about to give birth in the back of the car.
• 3.40pm: Arrive at huge and gleaming hospital and a porter brings a wheelchair to the car door (!) and another guy valet parks the car (!!)
• 3.50pm: Receptionist at maternity ward fires all sorts of insurance and identification questions at us (“We have to have this for our paperwork Sir”) until a passing doc takes one look at me panting and heaving and shouts, “Somebody get this lady into Triage!” (I would have felt like I had a starring role in Greys Anatomy if I wasn’t in so much pain)
• 3.55pm: We didn’t really know or care what Triage was, I just knew it was a step in the right direction. I’m wheeled into an assessment room where at least four nurses fuss over me, whip my clothes off, put me in a lovely gown and announce, “She’s 7.5cms. You’re having this baby honey!”
• I remember screaming for drugs. Over here they’ll give you whatever you want. None of this the anesthetist’s gone home nonsense. Although I’d been all for the natural no-drug birth thing, I quickly decided drugs were the way to go. I was gutted when told, “You’re too far for an epidural. You’ve done good so far. You don’t need drugs.”
• !!!
• 4.24pm My beautiful son #2 arrives with not a bruise in sight. He literally flew into my doctor’s arms. And he was surrounded by daddy, mummy, three nurses, a resident,and a pediatric specialist (in case). What an audience. And we were in a private room.
• 4.30pm: A tray full of coffee, water, juice, cookies, bagels and cream cheese magically appears.
• 5pm: Two nurses wheeled us into our recovery suite (complete with bed for mummy, bed for daddy and bed for baby plus en suite bathroom and view). A porter wheels our bags. Another nurse comes in and gives me her personal phone number, “If you need me when I’m not outside your room.”
• 5.15pm: Another nurse comes in and shows me that everything I need for baby is right in the drawers under the cot: combs, nappies, nappy cream, onesies, mittens, hats, sheets etc. It was all mine. “Take it all home!” she says. “And all your feminine needs are right there for you in the bathroom. Oh, and right across the hall is the refreshment suite. Help yourself to coffee muffins and brownies as often as you want, and if there’s anything you want we don’t stock there, call this number on speed dial,” (points to high tech phone by my bed) “and someone from the restaurant will bring it up to you. No need to rush home. Stay as long as you want.”
• !!!!!!!!!!!!
• When it came to us leaving (actually only 24 hrs later because I missed son #1) the valet guy came and bought our car round to the front door for us.

Personally I can’t wait to check in there again. It was the best hotel I’ve ever stayed in!