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

Introducing....

Sebastian Shaun Rothwell was born at 9.06am on the 25th October 2016. He was a healthy 8lbs and 14oz and the first thing he did when he was placed on my chest was take a dump on me followed by a wee that rivalled Austin Powers after he'd just come out of biofreeze, This was most definitely a sign of things to come.

For those that didn't catch my last post, he was born by elective c-section after the discovery of a dermoid cyst that was blocking my cervix and twisting my ovary. It turned out to be a big, hulking bezoar of a cyst, just slightly smaller that Sebastian's head.

Seb, as he has become affectionately called, is a an amalgamation of every cliched description a mother can have for her child. He is obviously the most beautiful baby in the world, the most advanced, the best baby whilst simultaneously being the worst... he is, quite simply, superlative.

When were taken to the ward in a mist of shock and joy (he was here! Finally here! oh God. He was here) Seb had already latched but just kind of lay there, eyes closed, mouth open waiting for the milk to come. He didn't suckle for two days and I had to be hand expressed every few hours by the most wonderful midwife. 14 hours after Seb's birth, he still had not ingested any colostrum. My midwife expressed 10ml in to syringe to give to him but said, very matter of factly: "Your child needs to be fed. Give him some formula. FED IS BEST.' Weeping, I gave him formula, thinking I'd never breastfeed but the next day, Seb began to suckle and we had 6 beautiful months of breastfeeding. I have also formula fed him alongside breastfeeding and this has worked for us. My little boy is happy and healthy...so my advice to anyone who is worried about whether to breastfeed or not...just do what feels right for you and your baby. I wanted to exclusively breastfeed... and I did for a month. But mixed feeding was so much better for us.

Sebastian smiled at 4 weeks, sat up at 3 months and started feeding himself at 4 months. He is currently 6 months and is able to stand up, supporting himself. if you hold his hands, he walks with you. He loves music. Nursery rhymes, songs from the radio, classical...he likes it all. He is also a gogglesprog. He'll stare at the television for hours on end so we're very careful about what we put on the tv. You Tube's Super Simple Song's channel has been amazing. Seb now recognises songs and 'sings' along, batting his tambourine around like some little hippy.

It's not all fun and games though. Sleep is a long forgotten friend. In fact, Seb has always been a poor sleeper. I don't include the newborn phase here because no newborn is a poor sleeper - they just have no idea how to sleep 'properly'. I mean from 3 months, when his rhythms settled, Seb never really showed a great interest in sleeping. He would wake every two hours, nap for only half an hour and would become antsy if he wasn't in our arms. So we co-slept. I had never intended to do this...but again...it worked for us.  Now, at 6 months, Seb occasionally sleeps through the night but mostly, he sleeps from 7pm til 3am then til 6,30am and has three short naps during the day. This is manageable and far better than a lot of babies, I realise. We've only managed this by following Tracy Hogg's The Baby Whisperer Sleep Guide. It saved my sanity.

I could write so much about Sebastian. He is my best pal and he's just so much fun and he's the most interesting person I know. Military Man adores him also...and despite his hesitance to do ANY of the night feeds...seeing him with our son makes me love him even more deeply. 

My experience of pregnancy was ok - I had a fairly healthy, normal pregnancy though I wasn't one of those Earth Mother type people who adored being pregnant and growing a child. But it was all SO worth it. In fact...it wasn't all that bad. I might even do it all again...

J

Cesarean Sections - Cutting Through The Crap

Pregnancy is a mother fucker. It really puts you through wringer mentally and physically. The nausea, the bulging boobs, the swelling tummy, the kicks (oh the kicks) in the ribs that legitimately give you the fear that your baby is going to puncture your lung. And then there's sleepless nights (practise, I was informed, for when the bundle of joy arrives! Ho ho ho), waddling like a drunk penguin and pain in all your joints that inspire new sympathy for the elderly.

But despite all this, you're excited! I couldn't wait to meet my little baby boy, my little Gizmo the womb gremlin. That excitement got me through the days when i felt like my belly entered the room 5 minutes before the rest of me. That same excitement also got me through The Fear.

The Fear was all consuming in those final weeks. This little wrigger, burrowing his way in to my bladder and ribcage simultaneously, was going to have to come out. 

I'd been repeatedly told that my little Gizmo was actually not so little and was measuring big. I measured at full term 40 weeks by the time i was 36 weeks pregnant. So it was natural for me to think that he'd be making an early appearance - he was cooked and ready - he'd definitely be popping his not so little head out my foof sooner rather than later. Right? 

Wrong. I got to 41 weeks and nothing was happening. No dilating. No effacing. No other puke inducing words that implied imminent vaginal birth. The Fear got worse. I'd be birthing a beast that would tear me open! He'd get stuck and he'd die! I'd bleed too much and die! (Most of The Fear scenarios ended up in someone dying in 1800's birth bloodbath style). But then   The Fear changed as i started to think that i might not be able to birth my son...that my most natural, instinctive reason for existence would be deprived from me...

I was born by cesarean section and I have nothing against them - they are amazing, lifesaving surgeries and i applaud the surgeons and patients alike. But elective cesareans were a different matter for me. I hadn't realised how much I had subconciously judged those who had them as being 'too posh to push' until I had to have one myself. 

At 41 weeks I had a stretch and sweep by a consultant. It was excruciating and i bled considerably and right away i was sent for a vaginal ultrasound. Afterwards, sitting in his office on a sanitary pad that resembled an adult nappy, he gave me and my husband 3 pieces of information.

1. My cervix was high, tight and closed. He'd torn through it anyway (hence pain that made me nearly throw up - really) but he doubted i would go in to labour naturally.

2. There was something behind my cervix that wasn't the baby. Something that felt like a lump.

3. The lump, likely to be a dermoid cyst (google it if you're brave), was attached to my ovary and was twisting it downwards. I would need surgery to remove the cyst and most probably my ovary.

Stunned, I stared at my husband. I vaguely heard the consultant explain that I could try for a natural birth but that it may damage my ovary, it may burst the cyst causing sepsis, it may end up in emergency c-section because my baby boy could get stuck. 

My visions of a waterbirth dissipated. The images of me crying and grunting as i partially fractured my husband's hand whilst our child was delivered by a brusque but lovely Yorkshire midwife disappeared.

There was just no...romance to an elective c-section. But it seemed we had no choice. We were booked for surgery 3 days later...the 25th October 2016. We went home with mixed feelings.

The next day i woke with a new found excitement. How lucky was I that I knew the exact date when my baby would arrive? We could plan for someone to look after Smeagol the beagle, inform family so they could book time off work and make arrangements to travel to visit.  To make it even more exciting, we did a C-section announcement as a fun way of telling friends and family without inviting pity or questions.

Our C-section announcement

Ironically,  at 3am on the morning of the 25th October, I began to get contractions. I lost my plug and the contractions started getting more frequent and painful. It's true what they say - they are about as unmistakable as having a red hot vice squeezing around your uterus. But i felt so grateful...i got to experience just a little bit of labour. We had the impassioned drive to the hospital with me huffing and puffing, repeatedly saying 'that was the worst one yet!'

Because I was in labour I was prepped for surgery immediately. It was a surprisingly casual affair. I laughed and joked with the nurses and the anaesthetists, my husband took selfies of himself in his blue scrubs, we had a lovely chat whilst the surgeon cut me open.

I wasn't numb exactly but i couldn't feel any pain at all. It was like someone was doing dishes in my tummy and there was a lot of tugging.

C-sections are busy. I had a screen covering me from under my bust (Sweeney Todd type splatters of blood are normal) and there were so many medical people around me. Hubby was right next to my head and my trusty anaesthetist was behind me, continually checking I was ok. My midwife was there, smiling, letting me know exactly what was happening.

And then i heard it. His cry. My baby boy's first long, powerful scream. And it was so full of life. Tears sprang forth so easily that I wondered if I had been crying the whole time. He was placed on my chest, a red, gunky, warm little thing, all tiny hands and feet and squashed face. It wasn't love at first sight - it was awe that this tiny little human had arrived. 

It didn't matter how he'd arrived. It didn't matter that i had to be sliced and diced to see him. I'd do anything in the world to see his face...his perfect little face.

Whilst me and my husband, the new mummy and daddy, did skin to skin and helped our little one to the breast, the surgeon continued to operate and removed the cyst. It was the same size as my son's head and accounted for a lot of the apparant 'large' size of my son. At 8lbs 14oz he was big...but not the minimum of 9lbs60z i'd been told to expect.

My ovary was saved, my chance of conceiving again completely unaffected and i was sewn up and whisked away to my warn with other new mummies. We were no different. We all had the same look of love, awe and terror. 

And i got my brusque but lovely Yorkshire midwife...