Burning Out: Underneath The Filter

The Lurgy has entered the house. I woke up this morning, after an awful night's sleep, with a stuffy nose, a scratchy throat, aching joints and a pounding head. I was surprised at this as I've not been around anyone with a cold and I've been eating so well and exercising regularly that I thought my immunity would be a little stronger. So foul do I feel, that I felt something must have caused it and I looked back over my week trying to find the source of my misery. Only then did it occur to me that I might be taking on a little too much...

Working as a teacher I'm used to busy days and heavy workloads and countless marking and data deadlines. As Head of KS3 English, I constantly have a to do list longer than my arm and I rarely have a day that sees everything ticked off. Although I occasionally moan about my workload, I know I thrive in situations when stuff just needs to get done. I'm guilty of leaving things to the last minute because I know I can't procrastinate any more and I HAVE to finish a task. It's like I'm on my own Challenge Aneka episode only it's Challenge Jen and I'm competing with myself and time. The adrenaline is addictive and the pride at completing a task makes me feel like superwoman.

Being on maternity leave hasn't made me any more relaxed. Despite no longer having lessons to plan or essays to mark or data to review, I still give myself a huge workload...and I have to ask myself why I do this.

Take this week for instance. On Monday, I went to Mum and Baby group, completed a workout, went in to the local town to top up my grocery shop, even though I didn't need to. Tuesday I got up early to go running in the rain, took a shower and took Seb to Rhythm Time before racing home to have dinner before making the 4pm mum and baby showing of Beauty and the Beast. Wednesday saw a 10am Story Explorers class and a 12.45pm baby yoga class on opposite sides of the town and another browse around Tesco. Thursday? A particularly challenging day of a HIIT and weights session and a baby swim class all before midday followed by an hour's drive to York to have two work meetings before coming home to take Smeagol on an hour long birthday walk. On top of all this I do all the usual mum things: putting Seb down for routine naps, feeding him, dressing him, changing him, preparing bottles and meals, loading the dishwasher, cooking three healthy meals a day, doing laundry, tidying the house, walking the dog twice a day, showering, putting on make up, playing with Sebastian...food shopping. More? I meet up with friends for coffee, arrange play dates and clothes swaps, clear out my wardrobe and donate clothes to friends or charities, update this blog and instagram plus I'm doing the British Heart Foundation's My Marathon May.  It's no wonder that I'm starting to burn out a little.

Why though? Why do I do this? I frequently hear my friends ask how I manage to do so much - how do I find time to cook? To clean? Why am I so busy?

The classes with Seb I do because I think it's important for his development and because I can't stay in the house all day or I'd go crackers. They're as much for me as they are for him...plus I know that when I go back to work I'm never going to regret all the time we spent playing and learning together. But everything else can be neglected a little, surely? Even typing that makes me guffaw because I know I couldn't just neglect my tasks completely. I will always need to tidy and clean because I simply hate unorganised chaos. I deep need in me since childhood has to organise things or people. I think it's the same part of me that will always get a thrill at buying stationary. 

I've always been a bit of an overachiever. I'm not the smartest, quickest, prettiest or funniest. In fact I am distinctly average in every way and so I've always had to work hard. A fear of ignorance means I'm constantly reading and wanting to learn. If I don't know something, I have to 'read up' on it so that I know the answers. I feel proud when I receive compliments on my outfit, carefully selected in my mind the night before, even though I might only be going to the coffee shop. It's not about being the best; I'm not that shallow. It more like I want to be the best that I can be. 

But life is not a competition...and it's foolish to compete against yourself all the time. 

Looking at my instagram page, it's full of glossy, filtered pictures of home cooked, healthy meals, a smiling baby, a made up face and primped hair, motivating images of me working out. How pretty. How 'put together'.They're truthful images because yes, sometimes my life is pretty and put together, but it's not the whole truth. Sometimes, days like today happen.

Today I'm ill, grumpy, greasy and unmotivated. Today I haven't showered or put on make up or even changed out of my joggers and t-shirt which I slept in. I just put Military Man's hoodie over the top, because I'm missing him whilst he's away in Norway. Today, Seb and I have eaten a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs and avocado, beautifully instagrammed....but I haven't washed the dishes, or unloaded the dishwasher from last night. I haven't dressed Seb - he's still in his pj's. His toys are strewn around the front room, the dog's muddy footprints pollute my usually clean kitchen floor...and it's ok for today. I'm cutting myself some slack. I have no workout plans nor am I leaving the house apart from the obligatory dog walks which I will do in the same clothes I'm wearing now.

Everyone puts pressure on themselves but I do think mum's add even more weight to the load because they have a little person that they feel they're letting down if they don't do something perfectly. This is silly. Not once has Sebastian looked at me this morning, in his avocado stained superman pyjamas, and frowned at me as if to say 'you're failing as a mother'. He gave me his usual gummy giggle and blew a raspberry, spraying me with unswallowed remnants of scrambled egg. Sebastian thinks I'm perfect. One day, this will change and no matter how hard I try, he'll still give me stony teenage glares that will unhinge me. One day, he'll think I'm a rubbish mum and in a fit of adolescent rage he might even say it. But for right now, Sebastian thinks I'm the most wonderful mummy in the world, complete with greasy hair and a messy kitchen. And today, that's the best that I can be.


J

For The Love Of Chocolate

It's only natural that I should have been drawn to York. Despite now residing an hour away from the viking city, my heart will always call itself a Yorkshire girl, my feet ever longing for the higgledy piggledy cobblestones streets of the Shambles (the inspiration for Diagon Alley dontcha know?) and my nose ever sniffing up at the air yearning to smell the intoxicating scent of chocolate that roams around the York streets like a little sugar fairy.

York is the city of chocolate. Forget Vikings, Romans, Richard of York's vain battle or the Minster, York is instead made up of a dizzying array of sweet treats. The Nestle factory sits just outside the centre, filling the streets with a deliciously bitter cocoa scent if the wind blows the right way. The old Chocolate Works, once owned by Terry's (of Chocolate Orange fame) is treated like some holy shrine to all things confectionery. The park is even named Rowntree Park after Joseph Rowntree who opened the Chocolate factory in York before it was taken over by Nestle.  And then there are more recent chocolate accolades: The Cocoa House, Hotel Chocolat and of course the York Chocolate Story. You could say York has an affection for confection.

I love chocolate. This declarative doesn't seem to convey the depth of feeling I have for the stuff. My favourite treat is a jar of Nutella, ever so slightly melted, with a spoon. Nothing else, just the glorious, liquid simplicity of the velvety smoothness of chocolate. However, I also love my health and whilst chocolate is the food of the gods, it's not exactly conducive to a slim figure if you eat it for every meal (which I would. I totally would).

If you've read my other posts, you'll know I'm doing The Body Coach's 90 Day Shift, Shape and Sustain plan, using his recipe books and work outs to help me. I LOVE this plan. I eat delicious food, never feel hungry and after 4 weeks, I've seen incredible results. My one qualm? There is a significant lack of chocolate (or indeed sugar) on the plan. Quelle horreur!

I'm not a girl to do things by half. I've stuck to the plan pretty rigidly and haven't had so much as a brick of chocolate in nearly 5 weeks...but that's not to say I haven't had cravings. My god, have I had cravings. At times I've walked down the sweets and treats aisle at the super market and left a puddle of tears in my wake (or was it drool?) So, not content with the meagre offerings of cinnamon on the plan (i love cinnamon...but it is chocolate's less interesting, somewhat overbearing cousin), I decided to create my own chocolate treats that don't break the rules (too much).

Chocolate mousse
This is delicious and filling and has a slightly fluffier texture than angel delight.

Ingredients:
Makes 2 good sized portions
1 tub250g of plain quark ( high protein, low fat, zero sugar cheese - just go with me on this)
2 tablespoons of cacao (you could use cocoa at a push)
1/2 teaspoon of agave syrup
1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon (optional)

Method:
Tip all the quark in to a food mixer with a whisk setting, though a hand whisk won't kill you.
Whisk on a medium setting  until the quark starts looking fluffier (or until your arm feels achey).
As you whisk, add in the cacao and cinnamon one tablespoon at a time. Continue to whisk until all combined.
In a lower whisking speed, add the agave syrup and whisk until combined (don't worry if the mixture looses a little 'fluff')
Empty the mixture in to storage containers and refrigerate overnight.
Serve with raspberries.

Snickers Smoothie
I can't get enough of this. It tastes just like a snickers and feels like a real treat. It makes a great breakfast on the go!

Ingredients
250ml unsweetened Almond Milk
1 tablespoon of almond butter
1 tablespoon flax seeds
1 tablespoon chia seeds
handful of walnuts
1 tablespoon of cacao
1/2 tablespoon of agave syrup

Method:
Chuck it all in a blender and blend well.
Enjoy!

Bounty Bites
I love Bounty chocolate bars but I know a lot of people don't. If you're one of them, just leave out the desiccated coconut.

Ingredients:
300g Medjool dates
1 tablespoon cacao
1 tablespoon almond butter
100g flaked almonds
50g of coconut oil
100g desiccated coconut

Method
Put all the ingredients, apart from the desiccated coconut, in to a blender and blitz to create a sticky soil like texture.
Form golf ball sized spheres by rolling handfuls of mixture in between your palms.
Roll in the desiccated coconut.

Chocolate Pudding Oats
This seems like such an indulgent chocolate dessert. If it's a little rich for you for breakfast, why not try it as a mid afternoon snack?

Ingredients
50g rolled oats
2 tablespoons cacao
1 teaspoon of agave syrup
1 tablespoon of flaxseeds
250ml unsweetened almond milk
1 tablespoon greek yoghurt

Method:
Put all the ingredients apart from the yoghurt in a bowl and give it a mix.
Microwave for 2 to 3 minutes (check after 2 minutes). You want a gooey, pudding-y texture.
Top with a dollop of greek yoghurt.


If you decide to give these recipes a try, I hope you enjoy them! Leave a comment if you do or if you have any of your own chocolate hacks to share!

J

Fitness, food and fitting in to my old jeans...

The muscles in my bum are on fire. Every time I take a step up the stairs, or bend over to pick up my son or tidy something away, or even so much as take a step, my glutes cry out in shrieking pain that they hate me. I move around with low grumbles of  'ouch, ow, ooh, ouch, gah' like I've just had a hip replacement and am off to Bingo.

This pain is self inflicted after a particularly intense HIIT workout yesterday that involved Sumo Squats. Sumo Squats. Sumo = large wrestler with a wedgie. Squats = using your bum muscles to dip down low and (hopefully) get you back up again. Those are two words that should not be put together but unfortunately have been collaborated to create a squat from hell that involves you dipping down into a regular squat and then jumping... jumping back up in to a legs together position. Sounds easy? Try it after high knees, burpees and mountain climbers and do 5 rounds of each, as fast as you can. It's HARD.

I'm in my third week of training for a running challenge for the British Heart Foundation called My Marathon. I have four weeks to run a total of 26.2 miles - that's 42K if you like it metric. You can choose to walk, jog or run it and you log the miles you complete on a fitness app connected to your own Everyday Hero page. I've chosen to jog and run the miles as best I can but considering I'm more unfit than I ever have been, I thought I'd better get some training in.

The apps I've been using are my trusty Samsung Health app and the Baby Steps to 5k program which promises to get me fitter and running a full 5k in 10 weeks. If I can manage to get through the My Marathon month (not that I have a choice now that the sponsorships are coming in!) then I might put myself in for a charity 5k. The other app is Strava, a fitness tracking app for athletes which is only a little bit intimidating but also really good at showing me at which points in my run that I'm at my fastest and trends in pace, distance and longest active time.

Whilst this may all seem very benevolent and selfless I assure you that my motives are not purely charitable. Frankly, I want to lose weight. 

Before my eggo got preggo I was a size 10 to 12 and at 5"7 I weighed in at 12st which, incidentally is considered overweight despite the fact that I ran three times a week and ate healthily due to having coeliac disease. At my most ill, when I was passing out and my blood pressure was dangerously low resulting in an iron infusion, I was a size 8 and 10st and considered 'normal'. I was skeletal and it just didn't suit me.  Now, post baby, I'm a size 14 and nearly 15st. It's not the largest I've ever been but I don't exactly feel confident. Whilst I'm realistic enough to know that my body is never going to be exactly the same as it was pre Sebastian, I would like to lose some of the flab which seems to have piled up on my hips, thighs and arms...accumulations of fat that have come from the slabs of chocolate I've lived off in the last 6 months. Worth it? My tummy says yes...my glutes disagree! Trying on my size 12 pre-pregnancy jeans a few weeks ago saw them fastening, only just, pushing up a muffin top that made me seriously crave a blueberry breakfast muffin but simultaneously made me want to stop breathing in case oxygen contained calories. 

Me as a size 10 to 12 before I had my son

Just a few weeks after having Sebastian

I was lucky really. I got no stretchmarks or wrinkly skin as a result of my being pregnant. My stomach looks squishy but, aside from my c-section scar, you wouldn't be able to tell I'd been pregnant in the last year. My fitness levels, however, tell a different story. The first time I went out for a run I was out of puff before I'd even made it past the end of my street. But I know I'll get there. 3 weeks in and I already feel the difference...and the burn in the bum muscles. 

Foodwise, I've started following The Body Coach's 90 day Shift, Shape and Sustain plan, inspired by my pal Rachel over at The Inelegant Wench (check her out!) who was kind enough to talk me through her tailor made plan. As I am a pauper on maternity pay, I can't afford the £150 three month plan so Rachel has let me purloin some recipes and I'm using the book to help me learn, plan and workout. I'm 2 weeks in to the food plan and it's been illuminating. Essentially, it's a low carb lifestyle which suits me fine as I love a bit of meat (get that smut out of your mind) but it educates you on what to eat and when. Carbs are allowed, but only as a refuel after a workout so if I want a bowl of pasta that's fine, but I'm gonna have to work my ass off for it first. Food as motivation? Oh Joe Wicks...you are a genius.

So far, I feel full...constantly full. There is a LOT of veg and eggs and I'm getting pretty tired of spinach though I have discovered a lifelong love for kale but in truth, I'm finding it fairly easy. I love to cook fresh and have to anyway to ensure none of my food contains gluten so it's not that much of a change for me. The first week I had major sugar cravings and was in a serious grump with Military Man who  thought it was acceptable to eat MY easter egg in front of me. But really I'm glad he removed the temptation! I had headaches, lethargy and general sluggishness but this week I'm feeling much more refreshed...although I do seem to be spending rather a lot of time on the loo, side effects of all that green veg!

The recipes are delicious and I've been posting pictures on my Instagram so check them out.

Joe Wicks instructs his 90 Day-ers not to step on the scales or the Sad Step as he calls it but as I'm technically not a paying 90 Day-er, I figured I didn't have to stick to the rules. I know...I'm such a rebel. So far? I've lost 14lbs.

I tried on my pre - pregnancy size 12 jeans earlier. My sore ass fit in them without a splodge of muffin top. Suddenly, my glutes don't ache as much.

J

A Weighty Issue

I cautiously glance down to read the number on the scale that I’ve gingerly just stepped on to, clenching every muscle and sphincter in my body as though that will somehow reduce the weight through magical muscular mutation. I have to crane my neck over my stomach to try and see but unless I was to arch over and waggle my bum a little, there’s no way I’ll be able to see over the mountainous mound of belly that protrudes from me.

“You’ve gained 4.4 kg,” the medical practitioner says haltingly, her eyes panning over my gelatinous body before they reach my face. “In 4 weeks.”

I quickly do the maths because I was taught in pounds and stones like any decent British woman and, like many decent British women, magazine culture and fat shaming taught me that 1kg is equal to just a little over 2 pounds. 2.2lbs in fact. So that’s…9.7lbs gained. In 4 weeks. That’s 9 blocks of lard. 4.5 bags of sugar.

Refusing to say anything in order to maintain some kind of dignified grace (though actually my lip has started doing that weird throbbing wobble thing that means I might just cry), I resume my seat next to the desk and cross my legs as much as my fat stomach will allow me to.

The judgey faced woman in her blue smock and upside down pocket watch sits next to me and makes a note of my weight before sucking in a breath and saying:

“You know, you should stop eating take aways and biscuits and junk food.”

My wibbly mouth forms a little ‘o’ because I am genuinely ‘omg emoji’ shocked. She couldn’t have hurt me more if she’d have slapped me across my face. Fury replaces my shame and gives me the strength to look her squarely in the eyes (eyes which sit inside a plump face atop a plump, pretty little body which doesn’t look as though it’s a stranger to ‘take aways and biscuits’ itself. Hmph.)

“Actually, if you’d have read my file,” I say rather hoarsely, because that lump is still there at the back of my throat and I really want to hack it up and spit it at her. “You’d have seen that I can’t eat takeaways and biscuits as I have coeliac disease and have to eat gluten free foods. I plan my meals a week in advance and eat a diet of fresh foods which I cook from scratch. I can have my nutritionist or my gastroenterology consultant call you if you like.”

I watch a look of bewilderment pass over her face as she quickly leafs through my file to see that, yes, there it is, in big bold letters at the front of my notes: GI problems? Coeliac Disease, Autoimmune disease? Coeliac disease. HA! The smirk on my lips creeps across my face as she squirms a little in her plastic seat.

“Well, watch your portion sizes. It’s really not good for the baby to put on so much weight.”

Ah yes. The baby. As if I could have forgotten that little nugget, or in any way, for one moment, stopped worrying about his health rather than mine. Again, I stare at this woman, my midwife, and wonder in flabbergasted amazement, if she has any clue what it is like to be pregnant.

 It’s far too rude of me to ask if she has children – she is an older lady and I can’t see any personal pictures scattered around the surgery but I can see that she has a wedding ring on. The most I know about her is that she had a ‘lovely’ break away in Italy earlier in the summer. What does she know about me? Every medical issue I’ve had since I was born (if she bothered to read my notes…), my blood pressure and beats per minute, my blood type, the ease and time of my last bowel movement, the colour of my pee this morning and the fact that I have a ‘heavy growth culture’ in my last urine test indicating that bacteria sprouted like a fountain in the petri dish. She’s still amazed that I have been ‘asymptomatic’; i.e it doesn’t hurt when I pee. I  clearly confound all medical professionals.

This woman, who is going to be reaching in to my vagina and helping to pull out my first child in several weeks, knows all the numbers and tests but she doesn’t know me, and that worries me.

I am currently 33 weeks pregnant with a little boy whom I already adore beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. His safety, health and happiness is the central focus of my thoughts and it has taken me, more than anyone, by surprise because I’ve never been particularly maternal. This baby was planned with my husband and we were lucky enough to get pregnant on our first try (much to my husband’s delight – he now thinks he has supersperm.) and we were both thrilled if slightly daunted by the task of becoming parents.

My pregnancy, in my eyes, has been fairly smooth but my mum informed me the other day that she thought I’d had it ‘pretty tough’. From weeks 8 to 14, I had hyperemesis and was signed off work as a secondary school English teacher for several weeks during the dreaded exam prep period. I was put on anti sickness tablets in the end which stopped me from chucking my guts up fifteen times a day. The second trimester was easier, though my midwife informed me that my platelets were low and told me rather unceremoniously that I might have problems ‘with bleeding’ after birth which of course, sent me in to a frenzy of panic as I hotfooted my ass on to google to read horror stories of pregnancies that have resulted in mothers bleeding to death during birth. By my next appointment, my platelet levels were ‘normal’  and so calm was restored.

Normal service resumed until I was advised at 24 weeks that I was rhesus negative, did I not know? Not only did I not know, but I didn’t even know what it meant. The explanation I was given was that any cross contamination of my blood and the baby’s blood could result in me creating antibodies that would repel and reject another fetus should I ever get pregnant again. Upon hearing that my blood type was ‘rare’ and yet lethal to potential life, I took the anti D shot with rigour.

Then I got to 28 weeks and the above ‘fatastrophe’ happened. I had entered pregnancy at a healthy weight. Having been ill for years before my coeliac diagnosis and losing 6 stones (the equivalent of a pre-pubescent child!), I had finally hit a healthy medium for my body. I was a size 10 to 12 with a healthy BMI. I was still heavy, but having a big ass and thighs will do that to a girl. During the first trimester, due to hyperemesis, I actually lost 4lbs – not much I grant you, but considering I was supposed to GAIN 5lbs in that time, you can see how much of a deficit it was.

By 28 weeks, I had ballooned. Almost very literally, because my stomach resembled one of those helium filled celebration balloons you find in Clintons. Baby boy was healthy and active, I was working and mobile and was feeling great. People said I was blooming  and truthfully, I felt it. My skin has never been better than in pregnancy, my hair is thicker and shinier and for the first time, I have actual tits that fit in a C cup bra, rendering my 32A’s useless in my underwear drawer. I received comments such as ‘pregnancy really suits you,’ ‘ oh you just look beautiful!’ and ‘You’re carrying it really well!’ I felt good…validated in my new, swollen form.

At 28 weeks pregnant, before the 'fatastrophe'.

                                          

So what my midwife said brought it all crashing down. I was no longer blooming; I was fat. I was no longer carrying it well, I was downing in subcutaneous poison. It wasn’t good for the baby.

I attempted to tell my midwife that I ate well and moved fairly regularly – I was on my feet all day as a teacher, moving from classroom to classroom, campus to campus, up and down flights of stairs. It was enough to give me a ‘pulse like an athlete’ and maintain my healthy weight before pregnancy. She’d looked as though she didn’t believe me so I swore I’d keep a food diary until my next appointment (I did) and try moving more (I did.) 

When I got home, I bawled my eyes out, stripped off in front of my full length  mirror and scrutinized every extra ounce of flesh that I had gained. Now instead of seeing a pregnant lady, flush with life, I saw a fat blob who had let herself go.

By my next appointment, I had gained 2 more kg (4.4lbs) and I got that same critical look from my midwife. I’d gone to my appointment starving,  having made sure I’d done my pees and poops before hand in order to carve out some hollow space and weigh less. My heart plummeted when she read out my weight gain and I quickly pulled out my diet diary. She flicked through it and her critical look slowly changed to one of confusion.

“You eat really well,” she admitted ruefully. “In fact, I don’t think you’re eating enough. You could stand to eat a little more protein and a few more snacks.”

 I nodded, glad this had been acknowledged. 

For a healthy pregnant woman, 2200 calories is generally agreed to be a good amount for prime fetal growth. In the third trimester, like I was then and am now, that shoots up to 2400. I was eating 1800 calories a day – I still am. I struggle to fit more in to be honest. My midwife then went on to take my blood pressure (‘healthy – quite low really’), my pulse (‘perfect’) and my iron levels (‘brilliant – some of the best I’ve seen.’) She felt the baby, who was measuring as being 2 weeks ahead of 31 weeks but was active and in the correct position with a ‘spot on’ heartbeat. She had to conclude that I was fine….really good actually. And yet, I had gained 40 lbs in total, taking my pregnancy weight gain up to just over 2.5 stones, well above the guideline 25lb amount for a woman of my size.

She said I was ‘a headscratcher’.

I left feeling a little smug to be honest. This woman had taken away my joy at being pregnant and turned it in to shame. Even now, 2 weeks after my last appointment, I feel like I need to apologize for taking up so much room, for having ridiculously wide hips that catch door handles, knock edges of tables and seem permanently bruised. It felt good to know that I was, for all intents and purposes, healthy…doing a good job…keeping my baby son safe and warm and growing well.

I’ve read a lot of messageboards for expectant mothers where mums to be destroy themselves for their pregnancy weight gain. It seems to me that every woman is different in pregnancy and puts on a different amount of weight. Some women make it through with miniscule weight gain…but might have a traumatic birth, others pile one pound after pound after pound very happily because, damnit, they’re growing a human being! One story was a woman who was a personal trainer who kept up her healthy exercise in pregnancy but gained over 30lbs and then struggled to shift it afterwards.

My mother, my life guru and source of all wisdom (aren’t all mothers? {slight shock that I will soon be one of these wise Yodas of the world}), put it all pretty clearly for me. She said that my body knew what it was doing and to let it do what it needs to do. Be kind to it, she said, forgive its foibles and flaws. I am not a robot with specific measurements that fit in to neat little boxes. My body is unique, igniting this spark of life and nurturing it to grow and move and live and breathe. In seven weeks, my body will produce a tiny human who will love me and depend on me regardless of the size of my hips or the squishiness of my thighs.

So, despite the fact that my next midwife appointment is in 2 weeks and I expect my weight gain to have gone off the chart (literally), I’m going to walk (or waddle) in to that surgery with pride. Because no matter how high that number on the scale may be, it is nowhere near as high as my worth as a woman….or as a mother.

J