So a little bit of fun at the expense of dads everywhere! I’ll add to it as I find more, I promise!
I hate my body.
I’m fat, seriously overweight even. As I write this, I’m 138kg (2kg down already) which is considered bad unless I’m a bodybuilder, which I’m not! My BMI is high, in the 40s. I’m at risk for all kinds of diabetes (which I have a bloody blood test every year for), heart disease, not to mention the varicose veins I’ve had the last year or so, and now a sodding leg ulcer. Fuck.
I’m writing this having been to the doctor today about the leg ulcer, and being told that I HAVE to lose weight. I have been trying believe me.
Five years ago, it was a similar story, although not quite so many health risks. I was 151kg when we lost Melody, having been living off takeaways and pies and such for the five weeks whilst she was in hospital. Afterwards, not only did I finally start learning to drive (didn’t want to depend on others), I resolved to lose the weight.
When Kelsi was born a year later, I was 113kg! But then I started to feel guilty about losing the weight, exercising and such, when my wife Julz struggled with the pregnancy and the baby after she was born, and she couldn’t do the same. So it fell by the wayside, and after a while I fell into bad habits, coming home from work and stuffing my face with anything I could get my hands on.
So here I am, 2017, and it’s nearly our youngest’s 2nd birthday.
I HAVE to lose weight.
Not only the health concerns, but I hate my body, hate the fact that it’s so hard to find decent clothes in my size, and hate the fat jokes at work. It’s a vicious cycle, I get low and I eat, and then I get ow again because I’m eating, and because I’m having the piss ripped out of me, so I eat for comfort again. Joy.
Previously, I started a scrapbook, a fitness book if you like with clippings from magazines, printouts from the internet, even random scribblings of my own. In it are recipes, exercises, even inspirations such as Stephen Amell, Chris Pratt, and Hugh Jackman. Also, I’ve started learning about the science behind it all, and actually quite enjoying that aspect.
It’s to help remind me and push me to keep going with the exercise and diet.
I’ve started following Joe Wicks’ YouTube channel, The Bodycoach TV, where he posts tonnes of free videos, mostly exercise vids. I’ve started one in particular daily, and then adding more each time. So far, I’m up to the video (20 minutes), 10 minutes of shadow boxing, plus a few minutes of weights and then 5 minutes of dancing like nobody can see me (cool down). I read Men’s Fitness Magazine and follow the Darebees website as well as the social media accounts to inspire me, and to learn the science as well.
I’ll try to update this post each week as I weigh/measure.
Hopefully, it’ll work.
If you see me with a cake, coke, or something other than a salad, whack it out of my hand, and tell me to get some push-ups in, or squats, or jog on the spot!
Here’s hoping I’ll end up looking like these guys:
And of course, my biggest inspiration, my wife Julz, my goddess:
*Click on the pictures above to link to their amazing social media presences (including Julz).
UPDATE 19/05/17: 138.2 kg, haven’t measured, but down 0.9kg from last week (according to myfitnesspal)
Again, this was written whilst blissfully unaware of what was to come just over a week later. I’d been experiencing some issues with Melody fidgeting during nappy changes, and I was absolutely terrified of putting too much strength into holding her! So this post happened….
Okay, so it’s been a week since the last blog, which has raised a few eyebrows, and raised a few questions:
“Was changing Melody’s nappy that bad?”
“What were you smoking when you wrote that blog?”
“Who the feth are you?”
“No, seriously, who the fething hell are you?”
Stuff like that.
Anyways, it’s been over a week since the infamous Battle of the Poop. So, yesterday the nurses had me doing the same thing, full cares, with my wife expressing behind me. I swear since last week the nurses have all started chomping cigars just to shit me up! So, my hands shaking like a blancmange in an earthquake, I dove in. The day before, she had had a blood transfusion, which naturally meant that that day was the day she was epically hyper.
I managed to get through the bed bath easily enough.
And then onto the nappy. I took the dirty one off, wiped her, and she pooped again. Got the second one on, and she pooped loads, all yellow and radioactive.
And thus began the latest episode madness.
I turned my head because my wife had chuckled at the sheer amount of poop. When I looked back, she had gone. There was a rustling sound and I looked at the top of the incubator to see her on all fours UPSIDE DOWN and wearing a Spider-man costume (although somehow she was wearing a nappy at the same time that I hadn’t put on her).
“Uh-oh,” I said.
She nodded at me and then extended her arm out, putting the two middle fingers into her palm.
Spider stuff hit me in the face, and she was swinging away, and out of the incubator, slinging strings of web across the big room.
“Come back dammit,” I shouted. Spider-Melody stopped and turned, and put her hand out again.
I fell back against the incubator, trying to scrape the web off my face. When I did, Special Care had been replaced by a New York skyline.
The web was slinging all around me as the nurses (curiously dressed in full NYPD uniforms) tried to grab Spider-Melody as she swung around the room. I looked down and realised I too was wearing a Captain’s uniform of New York’s Finest.
“Get after her dammit,” I shouted. “She’s making us look like idiots.”
The nurses all looked at me like I was mad, and I realised Melody (not Spider-Melody) was still in her incubator and looking at me with a little mischief in her tiny eyes. My wife was shaking her head.
I swear, though, whenever the nurses change her bedding, I can see a little bright red and blue outfit under the sheets…
This was actually written and posted when Melody was three weeks old, blissfully unaware of what was to come. I do apologise, but I’m sure other dads probably have felt the same way?
Melody’s now over three weeks old, and we’ve got involved in her cares and whatnot, and I’ve helped (at least a little) with expressing breast milk. We have had a wonderful team of nurses looking after Melody at Musgrove’s Special Care Baby Unit, and I can’t fault them at all. They’ve had us doing her ‘cares’ as I mentioned before; basically, we clean her, head to toe, use cotton bud sticks to clean her mouth and change her nappy! There in lies the core of this particular post.
Either way, there’s lots of it coming from my tiny little daughter’s backside, it’s yellow, and it stinks! Yes, I know it’s supposed to stink, but it’s a bit of a shock when it comes from a person that weighs less than a bag of sugar, okay? When she was born, I had visions of holding her up to the sky and announcing her birth to the world, like at the end of Peacekeeper Wars. (See below).
Yeah, well, my experience has been this:
Yeah I know. But I do not begrudge a second. What? Why are you laughing? I don’t! According to the nurse, it’s to help us bond with her, and take the load (pun intended) off the nurses looking after her. I’m not really sure why they keep laughing at me when I say I’ll do her nappy. Is it a man thing?
My wife sat down behind me with a hand pump to express breast milk, and there was a smirk on her face.
This wasn’t the first time I’ve done her nappy, or an all-over bed bath, but what I didn’t know was that my ever-loving wife had already been informed by the nurses (who had sneakily taken a peak at the state of Melody beforehand) that she had a full nappy.
Thus began the Battle of the Poop.
So I opened up her nappy, and all the machines started pinging in random order. I swear it sounded like lasfire. There was some sort of work going on around the corner, one of the workmen using a large hammer that sounded like artillery. So now I’m in the middle of a warzone, and the nurse turns to me and says, “Get into it then,” like some cigar-chomping sergeant.
I felt like I had been handed a rifle and told to storm the enemy position.
I got the old nappy off, full to the brim with yellow alien goop, and was about to put the next one on when she decided to poop on her nice clean towel-bed-thing. I got the next one under her bum and she kept going. Dammit. I looked up and Special Care was gone, replaced by a grassy, muddy warzone. The ping of lasfire ricocheting around me filled my ears and every now and then the artillery would slam through the air and I’d instinctively duck my head.
Then my wife chuckled, and something hit the back of my leg.
I turned to find my wife holding herself and spraying milk on me.
The nurse, chomping on a cigar, said, “Looks like you’re getting flanked!”
Don’t tell me that! Get in a foxhole and help me dammit!
Melody started wriggling and fidgeting, the second clean nappy wasn’t going on properly. Now one of the other babies was crying and the medics were attending to her.
“Jesus,” I thought, “How the hell am I supposed to do this? I’m just a rookie!”
“You’re doing fine, son,” the sergeant-nurse bellowed over the noise, “just dig in and fight on.”
So I did.
The second clean nappy went on, got wrapped. The pings and hammering went on, the warzone going on around me. I had to wipe the sweat from my forehead and shout, “Will someone call in a fuckin’ airstrike or something?”
Then I remembered I was still in Special Care.
Melody looked at me curiously, my wife was trying not to smirk, and I swear every now and then the nurse in question occasionally has a half-chewed cigar in her mouth even now.
So I’m mad, right?
What? Why are you all looking at me like that?