Anderson Marshall

I suppose I should "officially" introduce Anderson Marshall.
I feel a bit like a slacker as he is nearly three and a half months old and has yet to have a word written about him.  Well, at least not on this blog, I have been a pro at keeping up his baby book.  And I have facebooked/Instagramed about him plenty.  Anyway...
I think the biggest and best part of our sweet baby is that he IS a sweet baby.  The kind of sweet baby that you want to have a dozen more of.
He is relaxed.
Easy going.  Not one to fuss (except if he is hungry or overly tired).
He sleeps solidly through the night and has for nearly a month now.    It's crazy, but the relief of knowing we will not ever again have a newborn sleep schedule to struggle through is bittersweet.
Anderson gives out smiles and coos to his brothers any time he has their attention.  Emerson is his favorite (and is a fantastic, gentle, and clumsy but adorable big brother).  Anderson has long conversations with us in the evening before bed.  We think it is probably because that is when he can have 100% of Andy and my attention (as the other kiddos are asleep).
He enjoys being part of things.  He likes sitting up watching his brothers play.  He prefers to sit in his high chair at dinner and watch and babble.  We figured this out when he was fussy (but not hungry or tired) every time we sat down for dinner.  No matter where we put him--the swing, bouncy chair, play mat--he cried.  Until I held him on my lap one evening.  And there he was as happy as could be.  A few days later we tried out the high chair and that is where he now spends dinner time.
When he does hang out in the swing, he LOVES the little bird mobile on it that spins and tweets.  We can always tell when it has automatically turned off because he protests quite loudly.
He laughs.  This is a new development.  He laughs big, beautiful belly laughs.  I had forgotten the absolute joy of hearing baby's first laugh.  And while each of our littles found a different prompt for their first bouts of laughter, they all made Andy and I melty melt and do whatever we could to replicate that happy sound.
Also, despite being our littlest at birth, dropping quite a bit of weight his first few weeks, and struggling to gain weight back, he is now chunky chunky.  His arm dimples have dimples and his little thighs are thick.  I love a chunky baby.  Matt and Nic were SO very chunky and it made me so sad that Em never really chunked up.
It's been funny to not totally confuse people when talking about Anderson--usually shortened to "Andy". While not a huge issue among just our family, when talking about Andy's adorable bout of bath time giggles other people some times need clarification that we are referring to baby Andy and not grown-up Andy.
Anderson has fit right into family life.  It is loud. Crazy. Happy.  And made even better by having sweet little man with us.

This is real.

I struggle with eating issues.  
Food issues.
Eating disorders.
I could sugar coat it, pretend I don't struggle, gloss over it like it is all no big deal that I am 32 and still cannot get a handle on things.  But, I won't.  Not any more, at least.
Because I am trying to fix some bad, bad habits that I've been holding onto since high school.  Because I am trying to find other ways to manage my anxiety.  Because I want to get my body to look nice in a way that is sustainable and not in a way that will destroy my bones and my teeth.  Because I want my boys to learn to be kind to their bodies.
When I finally stepped on the scale after having Anderson (at 4 or 5 weeks postpartum), and I saw 220, I about died. 220 pounds.  I cried.  Two and a half years (give or take) of being pregnant or nursing, using the pregnancy as an excuse to not eat well and nursing as an excuse to eat extra had caught up with me.  Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Overwhelming.
Suddenly I was aware that I was the obese lady on the late night infomercial with fifty or more pounds to lose.  
Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Without thinking, I went into planning mode: water and gum and coffee. Creamer every other day.  Vitamins. Purge any and everything else.   Ready, set, go...
Except.
I am responsible for feeding a baby.  I can't do that.  I can't even, really, restrict my calorie intake too severely.  Not enough calories=not enough milk.
So, then what?
Two hundred and twenty pounds, and I hated how I looked.  How nothing but maternity clothes fit.  Hated my body with no idea how to change because everything I knew to fall back on to drop the weight was absolutely off limits for as long as I nursed Anderson.
I decided to try something new and hit the gym 3-5 times a week.  Get some kid-free time (the YMCA child watch ladies are gems).  Sweat.  Learn how to use weight machines.  Find the tiny, mirrored room of free weights that no one ever uses and perfect my squats and lunges.  Get blisters and callouses.  Get sore.  Feel so much better.
I also decided to scrap the word "diet" and try just eating better.  More water.  I subscribed to a farm box.  Lovely, fresh, organic fruits and vegetables delivered weekly.  I started cooking more fish and less red meat, incorporating whole grains, keeping less junk stashed in the pantry.  Less going out or picking up fast food.  Being aware of what and how much I ate by keeping a food diary but not stressing if frozen yogurt happened to be an entry.  I started thinking about what I ate instead of not caring about what I ate because I was just going to throw it up anyway.
I started this seven weeks ago.  I started all of this knowing I would have to have patience.  I set non-weight related goals like: "keep track of  all the food I eat this week", "35 hard minutes on the elliptical," or, "no after dinner snacking" because I knew losing weight the right way takes time.
I have been consistent.  I have worked hard.
So when I stepped on the scale yesterday and saw 220 register, I wanted to scream.  And with that scream came the temptation of old habits.
It was hard to ignore.
And today, when the old lady in the store asked me, as I held my three-month-old IN MY ARMS, when I was due, I wanted to cry.  I did cry.  The whole way home.  And with those tears comes self criticism. And ugly feelings of failure.  And feeling out of control.  And the old habits, the ones that I know can get me 50 pounds lighter a lot quicker than I am getting there with the new habits, the ones that make me feel better by quieting anxiety, become so tempting.
This is a struggle.
It is frustration.
So this,writing then hitting the "publish" button when I am done, is to hopefully lessen some of the struggle. Get it out of my head.  Where some one can see it.  And maybe not ask me when I am due.  Or how I plan on losing the weight.
Or maybe, really, it is so there is no judgement about my 220 pounds because I am trying to lose it.
The right way.
Without being hungry and grouchy and hiding my tooth-scraped knuckles.  Without being irresponsible as a parent.  By trying to instill some new ways of doing things that are not completely ridiculous.
I am trying.
I am.