If your body really is a temple then mine isn't exactly what you'd call 'architecturally outstanding'.




I think it's safe to say that the Taj Mahal I am not, (though I am similar to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant down the road, in that I am full of yummy takeaway food.)




I am no longer carrying around a real baby in my bod, but instead seem to have unknowingly adopted a jelly baby in his place, it's not a pretty sight. And since this weeks marks the week of my post-natal check up, and thus means I am officially a 'normal' woman again, I figured that right now is where my temple reconstruction should begin. So hard-hats at the ready please folks, cos this could be dangerous.




Of course the simplest and easiest way of getting back into shape and looking a million dollars is, as everyone knows, to apply to be on 'Extreme Makeover.' To have ones imperfections carefully perfected by the surgeons knife, courtesy of the lovely people at LivingTV. Naturally this is at the top of my to-do list, but on the odd chance that they don't pick me I'm gonna begin the journey by taking the old fashioned route, diet (yawn) and exercise.




This is not gonna be an easy feat for a gal like me. I love food. I love to cook. And most of all I love to eat. And I eat all the naughty stuff too, like pasta and bread and chocolate. If it's even slightly sinful I'll have it. Mealtimes are a big deal in this household, I cook, Lori lays the table, together we eat and usually watch an episode of, 'Come Dine With Me,' whilst we enjoy our grub, then Jay washes up. It's a ritual we've always enjoyed and would love to continue. Nope, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I'll ever be one of those, 'just a stick of celery and a bit of carrot please,' kinda girls.




Exercise, on the other hand, should be fine. In theory. In practise however I appear to lose more dignity than actual weight.




The other morning, for example, whilst exercising my hands with the wonders of the Sky+ remote (which i very rarely get to hold since it is almost always attached to my husband,) I stumbled upon the 'FitnessTV' channel where I found a whole array of workouts and programmes including one, seemingly produced specifically for me, called, 'The High Heeled Workout.'




Within minutes I had kicked off my slippers and stepped into my very beautiful Roland Cartier stilettos and I was shaking my hips and strutting my stuff in my living room-come-dance studio with 'Natalie' as my very own personal dance instructor.




About a half hour in, with my glass of water in hand and my butt giving Beyonce a run for her money, I found myself getting a little hot and thus slipped off my t-shirt so that I was down to my bra, pj bottoms and heels. Of course this was the moment that the postie decided to cycle right past the living room window and (rather rudely) peer in. Oh the shame.




Still I shall not be defeated by the embarrassment that my exercise regimes seem to induce, (click here for a reminder of my running escapades, - am I the only one that can't perform physical activities without making a fool of herself?!) - I am keeping my head held high, (after all tis my head that's the only part to date that I can hold up high and that has not been defeated by gravity.)




I've noticed lately that I'm not the only one that's watching her weight, lots of my Facebook pals and fellow new mummies are also fighting the fat from what I can gather. Now that we have our babes in arms it's time to get our bods back and we are determined women, (after all we have survived the wonders of pregnancy and child-birth, so what's a little dieting?!) together we can do anything ;-)




I've mentioned before that one of my er 'hobbies,' if you will is, (and i say this with slightly shame at the sadness of it,) making lists. I write lists all day long. To-do lists, shopping lists, wish lists, lists of clothes I'm taking when i go on holiday etc. And I'm thrilled therefore to have stumbled upon a site that will combine both my love for lists and indeed my new temple reconstruction. It's called, Fitday and it' a website for tracking ones weight, diet, exercise regime and even moods. I've been using it for the past three days now and every day before bed I've been logging a list of absolutely every* calorie I've consumed during that day, as well as every form of physical activity I've performed. (* when I say 'every' I obviously discount the odd sneaky bite of chocolate, since that doesn't count – chocolate is good for you, it's a scientific fact. I think.) Tis a very useful website, I'd definitely recommend it if you're also about to embark in a reconstruction of your own temple.




I imagine this could take a little while, (after 14 months of pregnancy it's bound to be a bit of a mission,) alas I am determined to have the bod I once had.




Temple or no temple, either way it deserves to be worshiped ;-) Now . . . Where's Mr. Connolly with that massaged he promised me . . . ?




Steph x

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Domestic? Hardly. Goddess? Of course ;-)



Yesterday, however,  I was a bit of both. I’m all preened and plucked and have been pampered to within an inch of my life in preparation for those post-birth photo’s. (My goodness that’s a lot of p’s lol) and I’ve also either undergone a personality transplant unknowingly or have finally been blessed with the good old instinct to nest.



I’ve been waiting for the nesting instinct to kick in for weeks and weeks now, all the while my house was starting to resemble something Kim and Aggie would want to get their marigolds on. On my big pregnant bottom I’d sat, willing myself to attempt the housework, alas I couldn't muster the strength for anything more than a Sky + remote workout. 

Well finally a few days ago I had my body possessed by a clean freak and boy have I made up for lost time. Scrubbing, scouring, spraying, cleansing, bleaching . . . You name it we did it. (You see with the nesting instinct also came a bossing instinct which ensured that both Jay and Lori were involved in my cleaning spree.)



Yesterday, on my hands and knee’s, I scrubbed the bathroom floor with bump serving as a drying and polishing aid, (twas quite funny actually, even though I was soaked by the end of it) and I’m feeling so satisfied right now with everything done and dusted. Barry Scott eat ya heart out . . .



My labour bag, now that I’m left with little choice but to have this baby in hospital, is finally all packed with totally undignified yet essential items such as disposable pants and maternity pads. All acting as a cruel reminder of what I’ve got to come. I’m nervous as hell but so want to get this show on the road.



The only way I can describe how I feel right now is to compare it, (very naively) to sky diving, (of course this comparison isn’t likely to be very precise since I am a ‘feet firmly on the ground (in gorgeous shoes) kinda gal’ and have therefore not even come close to jumping outta a plane,) but for the purpose of explanation this is what I’m going with.



The plane is soaring, the door is open, I’m waiting for the final countdown to begin before I take a giant leap. My heart is pounding, I feel sick and dizzy.



Add the false alarms and painfully strong Braxton hicks that I have been getting regularly for days and days now and I feel as though someone is rocking me towards the door of the plane and then yanking me back again. ‘Ready . . . Steady . . . Only joking.’



I’m on pain killers to help ease the tenderness that these practise contractions are causing but they don’t seem to be helping much, because it still hurts so much that at times I feel I could just collapse into a heap and cry a million tears.



It’s got to the point now where I no longer trust my body nor my instincts.  My bump will tense until it is as heavy and hard as a boulder. My back will begin to ache under the strain and my breath will be temporarily out of reach and I have little choice but to try to ignore it and hope it’ll either be accompanied by something dramatic like the breaking of my waters or something or will just f- off and leave me in peace.



It’s exhausting and depressing and just plain cruel. And I have officially reached that stage in pregnancy where I could quite literally climb to the rooftops and scream, ‘GET it out!!!’ (Alas do not fear, my previously mentioned ‘feet on the ground’ thing will prevent me from making any risky trips on top of buildings! Lol)



But it’s not just the pain that’s at the root of my impatience. Because I also just cannot wait to meet this little person now. Cannot wait to love and nurture him on the outside. To welcome him into our (now very clean and sparkly) home and cradle him as the newest member of our family.



I have been pregnant for over a year now. In total it has been 59 weeks. It’s been the biggest endurance test ever and such a rollercoaster of a ride. Reaching the halfway mark in one pregnancy before receiving such tragic news that I don’t think any of us will ever truly get over, was by far the most traumatic experience I’ve ever had (and with my track record of dramatic events that is saying something) - Then when we discovered I was expecting again, just 6 short weeks after we had lost our gorgeous baby boy, and we had to live in constant fear that we were about to experience a case of history repeating. Especially when the genetics doctors told me we had just a one-in-four chance of our new baby being born healthy. Well we made it this far, the finishing line is just days away, yet I don’t feel as though I can wait another second.



So I’m going to be a naughty girl this afternoon, I’m going to be a rebel (something's never change.)  I have tried every other method in my GTBOM experiment to no avail and I have just one final trick up my sleeve—The Castor Oil.



It’s gotta be dodgy stuff. It’s harder to get hold of than crack. Seriously. It’s kept under lock and key in the pharmacy and pregnant women are absolutely forbidden to purchase it. This fact should not fill me with confidence, it should make me reconsider entirely. So too should all the terrible reviews and horrific stories I’ve read. So too should the comments and experiences and advice from my fellow pregnant ladies. Alas I am, I’m ashamed to admit, just one of those girls who’ll never learn. Or rather shall learn eventually but will always take the most difficult route. I have come to accept this over the years.



Basically I’ve read that castor oil, (which, as mentioned in my previous blog, is a really strong laxative) is meant to encourage contractions by making the intestines, which surround the uterus at this late stage of pregnancy, contract. This in itself is basically supposed to speed things up a little. So you see, In my opinion all I am really doing is giving mother nature and my stubborn body a gentle shove in the right direction.



If I have to suffer contractions at least let them being working towards getting my longed-for bubba into my arms.



Women have been using Castor Oil for decades and decades, though once again there are claims that nobody really knows how successful this method is for kick-starting labour because there hasn’t been enough research undertaken, which just sounds like such a load of bull to me.



I’ve been given advice from some of the girls in the village who have all tried it before. They all recommend eating an enormous meal, (which should be easy peasy for me as my current appetite could rival an elephants!) then mixing the oil with OJ (Apparently the oil really is completely disgusting) - downing it in one before hopping into a lovely warm tub, having a soak and waiting for the effects.



This is pretty much how I’ll be spending my afternoon. I’m nervous but hopeful—dreading the horrible side effects but praying that this will be the one trick in the book that’ll work for my bump and I.



Please don’t tell me off. I’m a big girl and I promise to suffer in silence if it does all go horribly wrong. Either way I’ll keep you posted!



x

 

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