Walking spit rag

Ha. 12:35 a.m. November 20 and it's my birthday. Look at me...as a parent of a 2-month-old, I am now a walking spit rag. Burp the baby and oh look, projectile vomit on me and the couch. Lovely. Thankfully, my 5-year-old has already gone through his bedtime routine so I don't have to hear his amusement, although I get a kick out of his giggles.

Not sure what to say about 37. The spouse joked about my being 18 but I'm comfortable enough to tout my true age. My ex tried telling G that I was 41 [thanks]. I'm still packing the extra pregnancy weight, though I'm relieved it's 20 versus 30 pounds. Still a bit, but it's not as bad as it could be.

The only downer is it's been harder finding time to work out. The gym doesn't seem to have child care on the weekends or evenings [wtf] so that means I have to bug the spouse. Not sure how well that will go over. But I have to start soon or I won't lose the weight.

And the pressure to lose weight. You don't feel as good, you hate the clothes that don't fit. And it's hard to be a good sport when the spouse makes remarks. Even if lovehandles were cute, they're not fun. And of course, getting up an extra hour early to hit the gym at work, during the week, isn't going to happen.

I need the NordicTrek back. It looked stupid but 12 minutes a day, gradually moving to 30 minutes a day and I was in decent shape. I miss that stupid thing.

And in some ways, I miss dating and life before baby. It's harder having time for yourself. Spouse has meetings that have to be attended. I don't have that luxury. But, kids grow up so fast, I do want to be able to say that I did my best to be a good parent. Though wouldn't it be cool if I had more frequent breaks to go shopping, see the girls, get my pedis. I'm not digging being the walking spit rag. Maybe that's what 37 is. But I hear turning 40 is better.