A couple of months ago, I had a couple of mama friends over. We were all contemplating stopping the whole breastfeeding/pumping thing, and one of them commented: "I'm so used to eating whatever I want and chalking it up to breastfeeding. I hope I don't botch the dismount and gain a bunch of weight."
Well, folks, I have officially Botched The Dismount. I haven't exactly gained a bunch of weight , but I haven't lost any more either. I am stalled. Stuck. Stuck in a delicious jungle of carbs and red wine. I'm about 10 pounds lighter than when I got pregnant, but still about 10-15 pounds heavier than I was pre-IF. (And about 25 pounds up from my wedding, but hey, I'm not in my twenties anymore and that's OK.)
So, I am recommitting. Reattempting the dismount. Trying to break through the plateau. Insert metaphor here.
My goal: the elusive Size 8 pants. I've got my former favorite pair of charcoal grey flannel slacks (did I just use the word slacks? I really am a mom) hanging from the bedroom door. I want to get into them by Thanksgiving. I do not want my thighs to look like a pair of bratwursts.
This is my goal. I have thrown it out there to the world. Please hold me accountable.
Or just hold me. I miss carbs.