Or do this…
My husband is cleaning the guest room and loading the dishwasher. He also brought home dinner and put the kids to bed. Tomorrow my mother arrives and has promised to mop my floors and do my laundry while I make one final appearance at the Y for the girls’ sports and ballet classes. Then she’s keeping the kiddos while Bryan takes me out for the last childless date we’ll have for a long, long time.
The carseat is in, the diapers are washed, the new La-Z-Boy is primed and ready. All I have to do is throw my Filofaxes in the bag and we are ready to have a baby!
This is how I rest. It’s the work I do with my hands when I sit. It’s my crossword puzzle, my favorite show, my scrapbook, my matching set of hand embroidered tea towels.
And when I have to rest a lot, when I’m sick, injured, in my last days of gestation, or kicked back in the nursing chair with a new baby (or an old one in need of my lap), there is nothing more comforting than to flip through the pages to see how I’ve survived it all before and how I plan to tackle the next big thing.
This week, since I’ve tied up all the loose ends, the bags are packed, the diapers washed, the laundry tucked away, I’ve let myself indulge a little. Coming soon…Postpartum Filofax!
Do you ever get an overwhelming urge to just take off running? Or do a handstand? Or throw a barbell up over your head? How about just walk up the stairs without needing to take a break halfway up? I’ve had all of those today.
I was going to be one of those women the internet loves to hate this pregnancy. I was going to post videos of my massive belly, lovingly adorned in spandex, deadlifting right up to the end. Hyperemesis gravidarum slowed me down in the first half. I couldn’t even walk through the basement at the Y without stopping at every trash can to puke. It was humiliating — not only did I appear to be getting pudgy, I was the wuss who had to stop and vomit halfway through a set of overhead squats. I didn’t announce my pregnancy to any of my meathead friends, but once they figured it out, they would. not. leave. me. alone. Who knew that all of these men who can’t figure out how to rack their own weights were all closet obstetricians?
My husband, the perfect man that he is, set me up in my dream garage gym so that I wouldn’t kill anyone or get us permanently banned from the Y. I swear,the love I felt the day he built me that squat rack…it might have been better than my wedding day.
Despite the incessant vomiting (and intermittent ocular migraines that kept me locked in a room with blacked out windows for days at a time), I manage to train pretty consistently right up until the renovation shut down my garage (and my goodwill toward men). There was increasing pain and pressure on my pubic bone, so I kept trying different support belts thinking it was just ligament pain and I would adjust and the baby will move and everything is just fine, etc, etc. But then one morning, I tried to stand up and literally felt my pubic bone rip in half.
Turned out I’d torn what was left of the cartilage in my pubic symphysis and my bones were just grinding together. My OB (who had previously given me enthusiastic clearance to lift throughout my pregnancy because, “You obviously look like you know what you’re doing.” Kinda want to pay him extra for that.), told me my only choice was to “quit moving as much as possible”. Then we both started laughing. And then I cried. He assured me that I would be fine eventually, but that walking and lifting would just make the situation worse until it could heal after delivery. AFTER DELIVERY! This was November!
I disobeyed for a little bit, thinking surely I could come up with a way to be hardcore without involving my pelvis, but my last workout was December 3, and it ended in tears.
That’s right, people. I have not moved through space for longer than 15 minutes without crying in almost three months. I wouldn’t be able to make it through Costco without all the couches in the middle.
So…this baby is due to exit my weary, waddling body in just five days. And while there are still at least two months between me and a barbell, the light at the end of the tunnel is getting me really, really excited.
Some of the things I’m most looking forward to:
Long, long walks…
Stroller hill sprints (aka The Mommy Prowler)…
Time in the gym with my lifting buddies…
The ability to stand in the kitchen long enough to accomplish anything more complicated than retrieving an apple from the refrigerator…
The new girl in the school room…
This is me being a slave to legalism and posting without actually posting.
I know it’s cheating to just post pictures, but words really aren’t coming easily (or with effort) these days. What is coming easily is love for my daughters. Even though they might kill me with the dumping out of all the Calico Critters and the pencil shavings and the blowing of the bubbles in the house.
She writes me letters all day every day, but I especially love this one. Not only does it show awesome mastery of the comma, It’s happy evidence that her predisposition toward perfectionism is well balanced by her sense of humor.
I worry too much.