So I had great intentions of writing a brilliant post tonight. Something about how my doctors MAY have known what they were talking about when they told me not to gain too much pregnancy weight. And how people were straight out LYING to me when they told me the baby weight would just "fall off" if I were breast feeding.
And then I was going to gripe about the frustration of needing to work out, but feeling so big and uncomfortable that the gym is the LAST place I want to be. You know, because everyone who goes to a gym is in SHAPE, which is intimidating and depressing. Besides, running is nearly impossible when your thighs rub together so much you get rug burn just thinking about wearing shorts, and your breasts are the approximate size and heft of large sacks of flour. Or anvils. Thanks to breast feeding, either analogy seems appropriate.
However, Ben is traveling and my little Drill Sargent is having a rough time getting to sleep. Which means I'm too tired/frazzled/annoyed to write the damn post, so you get the above cliff notes version. Now I'm off to rock a cranky infant and have a very frank debate with her about the pros and cons of keeping us both awake.