Friday, December 17, 2010

It's Like a Rodeo. With Presents.

I like to travel.

Or, rather, I like the idea of traveling.

Seeing family and friends. Visiting places off the normal beaten path. Hugging those in person who normally talk your ear off only on the telephone.

It all sounds, and seems, lovely.

So you book the plane tickets, gas up the car, pull out the luggage, and Bam!

You realize that traveling is only fun in theory.

Because now, now that you've already spent a fortune on reservations and traveling totes, you start the Three Ps.

Plans. Preparations. And Packing.

The Three Ps, well, they're really the death knell. They are the game-changers when it comes to the joys of traveling.

And they and they alone were the final nail in my coffin yesterday.

My husband returned home to work to find my un-brushed hair sticking up, but just barely, over the piles if rolly bags, Vera Bradley duffels, and laundry baskets stacked on our bed.

I'd spent weeks planning and preparing.

And, finally, a day before take-off, I'd started packing.

And it was the P that finally broke me.

I was sweating and crying and trying to heft my husband's X-Box into a space more suitable for Game Boy. I looked certifiably insane.

And why?

Because we're leaving for two weeks.

To see both of our families.

Whom live in two entirely different states.

Who, combined, we will spend two days driving and two days flying to visit.

And, of course, it's Christmas, which means we not only have to transport ourselves and our belongings, but also,the immense load of presents we've bought, and I've oh-so-carefully wrapped, to give to the members of the two said families.

Plus, there's the dog. The 100-pound dog, who comes with a bed and a Rubbermaid full of food and treats and leashes so he can survive two weeks on the road.

Not to mention the stupid extras everyone insisted we bring. The darn XBox, which my brother and father both requested, as they no longer have one in-house because it's off with said brother in college and he "couldn't get it on the plane."

Likely story.

Oh, and my wedding album, which no one has seen and every woman I know pleaded I bring with me to Christmas.

Let me tell you right now: It's me, wearing a white dress, and smiling profusely. You're not missing much.

And let's not forget the intense of amounts of clothing it takes to survive two entirely different climates - swampy Florida and blustery Arkansas. Especially when one fits in exactly nothing one owns, save one pair of sweat pants that have a large brown stain on one's right butt cheek.

Gotta love packing for a pregnant woman who's regular clothes are too small but who's maternity clothes are too large.

Before it's even started, I think I may be over this trip.

Not that I won't rally.

I will.

Once we've made it to our first destination, safely inched through airport security without being X-rayed and/or groped, and found ourselves a seat on the plane where I can easily access the potty, I will breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the fact that Christmas vacation is upon us.

And by "enjoy," I mean nervously read a book and grip my husband's arm every five minutes and whimper, "Was that just turbulence? Or are we about to start plummeting toward our deaths?"

Oh, traveling.

Always a good idea.

In theory.
***
Things are going to be a bit scattered around here while we travel for the next two weeks.

I promise to pop in and out, but it won't be very predictable.

So, in case I don't get to say it, Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday!
***
One more thing...

I'm so excited to tell you all that one of my blog posts was syndicated on BlogHer just last night.

Am I a bit embarrassed that it's about me, slapping my own butt? Yes.

But I'm already over it and can't wait to share it with you all! Check it out!

Thank you, BlogHer!

Thursday, December 16, 2010

And So It Begins

On Saturday, we attended a potluck with a bunch of other sailors and their wives.

We had a great time, as we're all wont to do, when there is good food and slightly inappropriate board games involved.

And then, toward the end, a friend of ours pulled out two little gift bags, a twinkle in her eye.

She gave one to my husband and one to me.

And then she told us to open them.

Who would have guessed what lay in their depths?
I couldn't stop laughing.

Our friends know us so well.

My husband proudly lay the Arkansas onesie on his chest, while I oooh-ed and ahhh-ed over the adorable Florida track suit, which my child - boy or girl - will most definitely be wearing every Saturday come fall.

Although my husband was less than thrilled with that little fact.

We actually argued about it all the way home.

Which, honestly, was probably all m fault, as I was the one who told him that "Of course I'll let our child wear the Arkansas outfit. To bed."

What? I was just being truthful.

Still, the hubs was a little miffed.

But as far as I see it, if I'm going to push a child out into this world, I have the right to lay claim to their college football allegiances.

There's got to be some perk to childbirth besides the agonizing hours of painful labor. (And, you know, the baby.)

So I'm finally pulling my first Mom Card.

Bring on the orange and blue, Baby. You can save the red and white for bed time.
***
Happy Thursday!

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Um, Today?

This week has been a bit nuts.

Holiday and Get-Our-Behinds-Out-of-Town preparations have reached an all-time high.

I have about 18 rotating to-do lists, all of which tell me what I should be doing every second of every day.

I've got myself on a very tight leash.

Luckily, so far, things seem to be going smoothly.

Granted, I arose at 4 a.m. yesterday to prepare a ladies Christmas luncheon. And I didn't sit down for almost 14 hours.

But hey, everything got done that was supposed to get done. I couldn't have been happier.

And, so, I'm here. At today. Facing today's to-do list.

Which includes lots of gift wrapping and pound-cake baking and envelope addressing and phone-call making .

This all has to be done today, so that tomorrow I can pack us up for two weeks away, cook dinner for a bunch of single sailors, and get - God willing - six hours of sleep.

Because Friday we leave.

It's a hullabaloo, that's for sure.

Hence the reason why I totally forgot today has another something special attached to it.

Something that is not on one of my many to-do lists.

Turns out, today's my birthday.

And, honestly, I totally forgot.

A friend of mine gave me an obtuse facebook shout-out about my birthday last week, and it took me 30 minutes to figure out who she was talking about.

Another person sent me an early birthday message, and I was genuinely puzzled.

A package came in the mail, bearing my new running shoes from my husband, and I totally forgot why he'd bought them for me.

I honest-to-goodness forgot my own birthday.

I even forgot to pencil it into my weekly regimen.

"Clean oven burners" I remember.

"Tell yourself 'Happy Birthday!'" totally slipped my mind.

Blame pregnancy brain. Blame my stress level. Blame whatever you want, but the truth is, I forgot my own birthday.

Worse yet, this means I've committed the Cardinal Sin of December Birthdays. And I did it to myself.

I let Christmas overshadow the day I was born.

I'm just as bad as the aunts and uncles who gave me birthday gifts wrapped in red and green, and the relatives who passed off one gift as a "birthday-Christmas duo."

I'm still the kid at school who didn't get to hear "Happy Birthday to You" and pass out cupcakes because it interfered with the class Christmas party.

Heck, I'm the teenage girl with no one at her sleepover because, with a birthday so close to Christmas, her friends all had "family obligations."

Except this time, it's all my own fault.

I'm too busy baking and wrapping and packing to even consider the fact that I'm a year older.

In fact, I might just have to wait till next year to celebrate. (When we have a 6 month old, who, I'm sure, won't get in the way at all! Ha!)

So, yes, today's my birthday. I'm a little bit older and not at all wiser, apparently.

Wise people don't forget their own birthdays.

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bake some cakes for my in-laws. But don't mind me if you catch me sticking a candle in one and humming, "Happy Birthday to Me!"

Don't worry. I penciled it in. Just for today.
***
Happy Wednesday, everyone!


Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Broke and Broken

So, Friday night, the weather outside was frightful.

And though I was lacking a delightful fire in the hearth, I was bound and determined to stay in and enjoy the warmth of my electric heat and catch up on some blogs.

With my husband running off to grab some take-out, and with our dear friend's baby, whom we were watching, snoozing in the other room, I grabbed my fleece blanket, a mug of herbal tea, and decided to catch up on my online reading.

With lap-desk in place, I reached for our trusty old - and I do mean old - lap-top, and this happened:
Oh yes. It fell right into two solid pieces.

Truth be told, I expected this to happen. Heck, I'm surprise it's hung in there for this long.

But it still doesn't make things easy.

Especially right now, when I'm spent a small fortune on Christmas gifts, and when we have a fairly pricey two-week trip planned to see both our respective families, of which we are leaving for in three days.

Oh, joy.

So, here I sit, blogging from the lap-top that is chained to our office, as it can't be moved, for fear it never actually connect and charge from it's power cord again. Seriously, moving this thing a 1/4 of a centimeter sets it off - dead-as-d00rnail off - for weeks.

Luckily, it's the holidays, and if anyone understands, it's you all.

Heck, blogging time is hard to come by even with a working laptop.

So, I'll be posting this week, but briefly. (I know. Figures it takes a technological breakdown for me to learn brevity.)

And then, while on vacation, we'll be buying a new computer, God willing.

Something that hasn't been with me since college and which can, we hope, actually serve as a laptop. And by that I mean, actually charge upon connecting to it's a power cord thingie.

Oh, and also make my husband happy, with lots of ram and gigs and speed and sleek design and ease, which his stupid wife will hopefully not be able to break.

I have very high priorities when it comes to technology, can't you tell?

Be back tomorrow for something brief! Happy Tuesday everyone!
***
The irony of all this? Our Internet has been out for three weeks, through no fault of our own. Our cable company is basically the spawn of Satan. Anyways, finally, they got their act together, and we were no longer required to use our cell phones as hotspots to access the Internet. They fixed everything Friday night. Less than an hour before my laptop broke.

Figures.

Friday, December 10, 2010

There You Are

Sometimes, this whole thing seems surreal.

I don't always believe that I'm actually pregnant.

That at this time next year, I'll be holding a 6 month old.

That, even when it seemed impossible, we finally got the baby we wanted.

I'm carrying it around right now in my belly. A little lemon-sized infant that will one day be walking and talking and running our little world like the bossiest thing this side of the Mason-Dixon line. If Baby's anything like his/her mother, that is.

But when I'm working or blogging or cooking dinner in my kitchen, I sometimes, for a second, forget I'm carrying precious cargo.

Baby is too small to kick me. My belly is almost non-existent. And if I didn't know any better, thanks to the small wealth of pregnancy tests I took, I'd swear I just had a bad bout of stomach viruses.

And, in a way, that scares me.

It's almost like, for those few seconds I'm distracted, it might not be real. That I might not actually birth a baby next year.

It's like it's all a dream.

And then, on Tuesday, I went to the midwives.

After checking in, weighing me, checking my urine, taking my blood pressure - the whole rigamorale - she lay me flat on the couch and gave me the pep talk:

"Now, listen, the babies are so small at this stage. I don't want you to panic if we can't find the heart-beat right away. Honestly, even if we don't hear it, the baby is likely perfectly fine."

She was saying exactly what I'd been telling myself since the appointment I'd had a month ago.

She was saying exactly what, no matter how much I repeated it, I didn't quite believe.

I wanted to hear my baby. I needed to hear my baby.

And, as usual, I was terrified that I wouldn't. I was scared none of this was real.

But I smiled, bravely, I thought. And I pulled up my sweater.

She went in with the Doppler.

And, within a second of touching it to my belly, I heard it.

The whoosh! whoosh! whoosh!

Consistent. Steady. Loud.

"Happy and perfect as could be," said my midwife.

But I barely heard her.

Because I was grinning and crying and whispering, "There you are, Baby! There you are!"

Amazingly. Unbelievably. There he/she was. Living away inside my belly.

That strong, steady sound was coming from my baby, from a tiny little blessing I love with more intensity than I ever thought possible.

It was my sweet little one, simply telling me, with each beat, "I'm here, Mommy. I'm really here."

And, with every little whoosh! of Baby's heart, I finally let go.

I finally let my own heart fell a little bit more in love.

I finally believed.
***
God has taught me a lesson or two with this baby, I have to say.

Honestly, within seconds of seeing two pink lines on a test, I've been terrified we'll lose this angel.

So I prayed for a sign. A sign that this baby was healthy and strong and sticking.

And then I promptly got morning sickness.

But, when that wasn't enough, the worry came back.

Which is when, out of the blue, everyone in my life, including my midwife, began to reassure me, telling me how they just knew this was it. That there was no need to worry. That they could tell this was going to be one healthy baby boy or girl.

I calmed.

But then, like a bad friend, the worry came back yet again, at just about the time my Tuesday appointment rolled around, when I freaked out, internally, that I wouldn't hear our baby.

Which I did. The second we had the chance, I heard our baby loud and clear. The midwife didn't even have to search for him/her.

All this to say that I obviously have issues with trust. With fear. Which is why, recently, I can literally hear God telling me to relax, breathe, and believe.

Through my mother. Through my friends. Through my health-care providers.

And now, through my baby.

Point taken, God, point taken.
***
Note: I know. It's Baby Central around here. I apologize. It's been all my week's revolved around. I promise to tone it down. Soon. Or at least try.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Thursday, December 9, 2010

I Believe In Miracles

Hello, all!

I'm not here today.

Instead, I'm over at my friend Sam's blog, talking about why, this Christmas, I choose to believe in the beauty of small miracles.

You can find me at The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times until tomorrow.

Be back Friday!

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Workout Wednesday: How Not to Tick Off Your Trainer

I think the last gym I worked at spoiled me.

I had amazing clients.

They liked me. They did what I said. They listened earnestly. They tried hard.

Women and men. Young and old. Large and small.

My clients were awesome.

And then I came here.

And I took a job that, for all intents and purposes, seemed like a dream job.

I work for the military in their recreation program. I train active duty members and their spouses. More specifically, I work with women who have recently had children, who have weight-loss goals, especially those striving to get their pre-baby bodies back post-partum.*

It has "me" written all over it.

On the surface, it seemed like the perfect job.

And, then, the whining started. And continued. And, in fact, got worse.

And worse and worse and worse.

My clients are driving me crazy.

I used to teach high school, for heavens sake. I have a very long train of patience. I've heard everything. I can tune out whines and excuses like it is my job. Because it was my job.

But these women.

THESE WOMEN.

I'm finding myself fighting back screams lately. I'm struggling to be professional. I'm yearning to tell them what I really think of them.

It's all enough to make me wonder if, indeed, etiquette is really dead. If, in fact, I'm witnessing just a small sample of the degradation of manners and work ethic in our society.

If, underneath it all, all those nasty rumors about women are true.**

Which is why, today, I think we need another lesson in gym manners, partially because I need to vent and partially because I refuse to watch public decency go town the toilet, even at our local gyms.

I know, I know. I'm dramatic. But I'm irked.

So, I give you, Four Ways Not to Tick Off Your Trainer.

1. Stop Whining Before I Sit On You


Seriously, this one gets me. Really gets me.

If you are there of your own accord, for the love of all things holy, stop the whining.

And I'm not talking about the occasional woman who, in jest, says, "Argh! You're killing me, lady!" That's funny. That I can handle.

But when you show up for a small group class in which we run for at least 30 minutes, like we have for the last six months, do not complain to me, or, better yet, refuse to do it because you "don't feel like it."

You're being lame, and I'm going to call you out on it. (Especially since I got out of bed, vomiting and pregnant, to run with you. If I can do it, you can do it.)

My ban on whining extends into the whole "pass the buck" trend, in fitness, too.

For instance, if you don't want to be there, don't blame the weather. Unless it's actively snowing or lightening and thundering outside, you can exercise. We live in the South. It's sunny. You're not in danger of passing out from heat stroke, which is a far greater issue down here below the Mason-Dixon line than 35-degree weather. (Those of you already experiencing blizzard-like temperatures? You all may have a legitimate excuse. However, I know several trainers all over the country who exercise - outdoors - with their clients in the snow. It can be done. That's all I'm saying.)

Second of all, don't blame me for "making you be here." You choose to spend your morning with me. I'm here to make you exercise, not sit down and hold your hand while you sip coffee on a yoga mat until you start to "feel" like exercising.

Buck up, ladies!

Lastly, please don't act like I'm being cruel and inhumane, huffing and puffing and stalking around, if I ask you do something us gross and unjust as a push-up - gasp! - or more than one set of sit-ups - egads!

It's my job. If you don't like it, don't hire a trainer.

2. I Am Not Your Hair-Dresser


Yesterday alone, I heard about a client's nasty divorce, a child who refused to be potty-trained, an issue with playgroup moms being catty, and a husband who refuses to acknowledge that they're having money problems.

This is all well and good.

I spend hours a week with these women. I don't mind listening.

But when you expect to come to the gym, confide in me, and then not work out? You're in serious trouble, my friend.

I'm not a therapist. I'm simply a trainer. So feel free to talk all you want, as long as you're gasping out words between lunges, squats, and crunches. Otherwise, save the gossip for the salon.

You're not paying me to sit down and listen to you. Spilling your guts is not an excuse to get out of exercising.

3. I'm Not a Miracle-Worker; That's God You're Interested In

I am a human being.

I can tell you what to do to get the most bang for your buck, but it is up to you to listen to me. I'm not above yelling at you a little, if that helps motivate you, but I draw the line at walking over and forcing you down into a squat position.

So, if you sit there and obstinately refuse to finish the last five repetitions I assigned you, then it's not my fault that you can't shake those last three pounds. Don't come crying to me the next time you step on a scale.

You have to make the ultimate choice to listen to me or not. It's no skin off my back should you choose to disregard my advice.

Ignoring me is only hurting yourself. (And, in my client's case, wasting government money, as my small-group clients use my services for free. I'm paid by the military, not by each individual client. And yet, they complain ad nauseum!)

4. The Gym is Not a Sorority House

I don't play favorites. All my clients are my clients, and I pretty much treat them equally.

That being said, what is it about women that requires them to form cliques in every available outlet they enter?

This woman won't hang out with that woman; this girl gets mad if her best friend can't make a training session and sulks the whole hour.

I even have one client who refuses to talk to anyone save her close friend and myself, and, should some new mother come to small-group training and try to strike up a friendly conversation or small talk, said Ice Queen will turn her back and roll her eyes, as if she doesn't deem talk to "the new girl."

It's infuriating.

I actually lost a client because I refused to kick out another client who she'd had a fight with.

And these are grown women. With children. And husbands. And, for the most part, successful lives.

But I swear, they are no different than my old high-school students. In some ways, they're worse.

So, do your trainer a favor next time you're at the gym. Be nice to everyone around you, even if they aren't your favorite people. Heck, even if they smell like old socks, smile kindly at them. Tell them what they're in store for.

The gym is not your personal sorority house. We're not here for girl time; we're here to exercise.
***
Thank you for reading all that. I feel much better now.

On Monday, I was literally seconds away from strangling two of my clients. And I've never laid a hand on anyone in my life.

So, if you have a trainer who you see day in and day out, keep in mind that not every client is as peachy-keen as you. And, if you can, take it easy on them. Keep the complaining and whining to a minimum. And remember, we're there to help you.

But we are human beings. With working ear drums. Your words hurt. And drive us slightly insane, sometimes.

So be kind to your trainer and those around you.

Because, trust me, you don't want to make enemies out of us.

We're the ones who dole out the push-ups.
***
*Honest to goodness, I love my job. And about 40 percent of my clients are perfectly sweet, wonderful people who I genuinely adore. But the other half have made my life miserable since about July. I have accommodated them and helped them and done everything I can to make them succeed, and it's never good enough. And they could care less that they're inconveniencing tons of people with their behaviors, too, which is the worst part about it.

**As a military wife myself, I hate when those among us become catty, eating their own. I'd heard this about the military spouse community before I joined, and largely, I've found it to be false. I have close, dear, sweet, wonderful friends I've met here. But some of my clients prove that the stereotype, to some extent, can be based in fact. And, therefore, I get especially irritated, as I'm not so sure I want to even be associated with their rude, exclusive behavior.


Note: Those of you who have left me pregnancy and post-partum workout questions, never fear! Your answers are coming! I will continue to talk about pregnancy, exercise, and recovering your body post-baby next Wednesday!

Happy Exercising, everyone!

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

"You're Running Out of Time, Woman!"

I am not done Christmas shopping.

I am not done with our Christmas cards.

I have packages of presents that need to get to the post office.

I have a Christmas luncheon to plan, prepare and throw.

I have dozens of cookies to bake for my husband's work.

I have a holiday dinner to prepare for a bunch of single sailor's on base.

And, when all that's over, in less than two weeks, I have a seven-hour drive. With a dog and a husband and a back-seat piled with the gifts I haven't bought or wrapped yet.

And then I have an eight-hour plane ride at 5:30 a.m. the following day, with a baby in my womb who wants nothing more than to make me upchuck at that time of day when I've got both feet on land, let alone up in the air.

But first - first! - I have to face, day in and day out, my cranky clients, who, for lack of a better phrase, are driving me crazy, complaining about the fact that they have to exercise when it's cold out. (And by cold, I mean under 60 degrees. And they aren't all Southerners. They're just wimps.)

Plus, I have a house to run and a dog to walk and groceries to buy and stuff to deal with that keeps happening at the most inopportune of times.

And I'm doing it all alone because my husband might as well be deployed, he's working away so much.

In other words, I'm totally stressed out.

I swear, it's like I woke up yesterday morning and yelled, "Crud! We leave for Christmas vacation in 11 days! And I still have so much to do!"

Like every year, I'm just not sure how this happened. Quite honestly, I'm not the type of women who has it all taken care of before Black Friday. I'm never going to be. But, man, I sure I wish didn't keep cutting it this close.

So, I'm taking today off. I haven't the energy to work up something interesting for today's post, especially as my own inner monologue keeps screaming at me, "You're running out of time, woman!"

Plus, after work, I have plans to go to wrestle the crowds of holiday shoppers, hoping and praying that this time, I'll make my final purchase of the season.

God help the next person who gets in my way. I may just puke on them.

Out of pure spite.

Be back tomorrow, God willing, with something more profound (and less Grinch-y) to say.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Monday, December 6, 2010

My Favorite Child

Marvin the Dog has become my new pregnancy buddy.

He follows me around like, for lack of a better metaphor, a lost puppy.

He's by my side 24-7, sniffing me, looking inquiringly around the corner at me when I sit down unexpectedly, or laying at my feet or by my side.

He knocked over a table just last week trying to lay down in the infinitely small crack between a chair I was sitting in and the wall.

The poor thing's a mess with worry.

But he's also the most flexible, easygoing thing in my life right now.

He's developed the bladder of an elephant, especially on the days where our trips outdoors are few and far between because of all my puking.

He only eats at night-time, as the hubs is the only person who doesn't dry-heave trying to scoop food into his bowl.

And, ever since morning sickness hit, he's been sidling up to me while I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet. He simply lays his big, old head on one of my thighs the entire time I hurl.

When I'm done, he licks my tears away. (Every time I've ever vomited in my life, my eyes massively well up. It's weird.)

He's even taken to snuggling up in bed next to me on my worst days - a habit we broke him off almost two years ago.
So for this and for many other reasons, I've taken to patting him on the head lately, after a long bout in the bathroom, and stating, "This, Marvin, is exactly why you will always be my favorite child."

There is something to be said for not having to carry around our fur babies via the womb.

And, still ridden with general pregnancy sickness as I enter my second trimester, I am appreciating more and more the beauty of raising my first-born - my dog.

He's never made me vomit. He's never made me gain weight. He's never left me bloated, constipated, and devoid of all common sense.

He's an angel, that dog of mine.

Note that now, four years after puppy-hood, I have forgotten the couch he ate, the books he tore, and the 18 pairs of shoes I'll never get back after he was through with them. Like pregnancy, I'm sure this is part of a perfect design in dog-raising, so that, one day, I'll be able to own another puppy again, without beating him for tearing up our new ottoman.


Still, without a doubt, right now, Marvin is winning heavily in the battle between him and his new plum-sized sister or brother.*

Which is why, out and doing some much-needed Christmas shopping this weekend, I spotted something I couldn't come home without.

A little token to show exactly how important this pup is to me:
That's right, my friends.

Marvin has made the tree.
I actually took a gold calligraphy pen to a black lab ornament I found. Unfortunately, they don't make ornaments specific enough for the three people this side of the equator who own dark brindle, Great-Dane-lab mixes.

So, before even a single photo of our new little one makes its way into a popsicle-stick ornament or a cute little "Baby's First Christmas" frame, Marvin was there.

A willing and loyal mutt, who tolerates my profuse vomiting.

He's a pregnant woman's best friend.

He definitely deserved to make the tree.
***
*Of course, I'm kidding. This baby is oh-so wanted. And, though I love him immensely, Marvin is indeed just my dog. But before I even had my marriage, I had Marvin, and he is very dear to me. So while this new baby is, of course, going to outshine him in the grand scheme of things, there will always be a special place in my heart for my first-born;)

Happy Monday, everyone!

Friday, December 3, 2010

No Comfort for The Coffee-Less

Winter is here. It's cold.

Like, cold enough to freeze the windshields and the grass when I awake to drive to work in the morrow.

And by morrow, I mean, morning. But I'm trying to fancy it up around here, as I'm currently writing this enrobed in fleece pajama pants and an XXL sweat-shirt that's too big for even my husband but is currently boasting what appears to be a thin crust of vomit from my morning sickness adventures.

You see, I like cold weather. I like all that comes with it - the cute pea-coats, mitten-ed hands wrapped around warm mugs of something spicy, steaming dinners of soup and warm bread, and frost on the windows.

As a Southerner, I live for the few precious months where I can wear close-toed shoes. Where sweaters don't make me sweat. And where full-length pants are a necessity.

Well, we're here, my friends. We're at that critical cold moment.

And I can no longer button my full-length pants.

My almost imperceptible baby bump has rendered me naked from the bottom half down.

Partially because anything constricting resting across my belly makes me want to hurl. (And often has.)

And partially because, well, they just don't fit.

My own jeans are dead to me.

Which wouldn't be so bad if I could comfort myself with something warm, something spicy, something caffeinated.

But, yeah, that's dead to me, too.

I'm not allowed coffee.*

Poo.

My hands, when mitten-ed, are wrapped around a mug of herbal tea or, on a particularly vomitous day, an ice-cold glass of carrot juice.

Mmmmm. Nothing says winter like water-y, orange, organic carrot essence.

I'd kill for a peppermint mocha. Heck, I'd kill for a mug of Folgers. (And I'm normally a coffee snob.)

It's just hard to embrace the weather when everyone around you is boasting red-and-white Starbucks cups, and I'm asking to read the herbal ingredients on their non-caffeinated teas, for fear they boast nettle root, passion extract, or some other such herb I'm not supposed to ingest with child.

Not that my will-power is that strong.

Last week, the hubs took me to Starbucks, and I ordered the de-caf peppermint mocha. In a tall. The tiny size, my friends. (Seriously, who orders the tiny size at Starbucks? Pregnant women, that's who.)

Anyways, there I was with my teeny, tiny de-caf skim-milk mocha. And I couldn't even enjoy it.

I kept worrying that the tattoo-ed teenager behind the counter had ignored my many pleas of "Please, make sure it's decaf. It has to be decaf! For the love of all that is good in this world, if that drink is not decaf, I'm climbing over your pastry case right here and vomiting right on you, do you hear me?"

I was convinced the kid had given me a fully caffeinated, baby-killing death drink.

I scowled at the man menacingly as he foamed my milk.

Not that it helped. Because upon receiving my drink, my husband finally convinced me to stop over-analyzing the barista's look of disdain. So I then moved on to worrying about the caloric content of the teeny-tiny decaf drink I was sipping.

I was sure as sugar that I was sending my unborn embryo into a diabetic coma with each additional slurp.

I glared alarmingly at the whole coffee establishment.

Long story short, I threw half of my teeny-tiny drink away. My mitten-ed hands were left clutching nothing.

But only after noticing that my Belly Band had slipped, giving the barista behind the counter a nice view of my granny panties, peeking out from my un-buttoned, un-zippered jeans.
***
Pregnancy and I are all kinds of classy and happy right now.

What with the ill-fitting pants, the caffeine jealousy, and the fact that all the pregnancy books say my nausea should be easing, though, clearly, it's not, I think I'm in the running for Crankiest, Coldest Woman of December.

So, if you need me, I'm probably out shopping for maternity pants. With mitten-ed hands. Clearly not holding a cup of coffee.

Lovely.
***
*I know many women are given clearance to drink one caffeinated beverage a day while pregnant. I was not. My midwives, who are normally very laid-back about food and beverage consumption, are not big believers in caffeine while pregnant. They convinced me to cool it with the coffee until after delivery. No judgment if you didn't have the same dietary restrictions. I'm just following doctor's, er, midwives' orders.

Happy Weekend, everyone!

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Butt Carols

My husband and I shower together.

Which sounds all kinds of sexy.

Except that it's not.

Because the hubs works a lot, we don't have a ton of time together, so we try and spend what few moments we have during the week with each other.

Even if that means he and I hop in the shower together at the same time, spending our bathing time rinsing and repeating, lathering and scrubbing, and - hold onto your hats, ladies! - talking about our days.

It's not at all racy, really.

We've been known to cover the power bill, the grocery list, family disputes, and vacation plans, all while rub-a-dub-ing next to each other.

You'd hardly know we're naked, we're so into the respective self-cleaning and boring, hum-drum talking we do while in there.

It's the most un-thrilling shower scene known to man.

Except for last weekend.

We'd spent several days ready-ing the house for Christmas. We'd put up the tree and festooned the various mantles and all that.

To help get us in the mood, we'd listened to Christmas tunes while doing so. It was pretty standard. Pretty All-American.

And, then, we hit the showers.

We began our squabbles about You-Know-Who hogging all the water spray, and I "accidentally" managed to bean You-Know-Who over the head with my shower gel bottle after he refused to let me warm up the water.

But soon enough, we settled into our peaceful chit-chat and self-cleaning routine.

All the while, in between soap breaks and conversation starts and stops, I began humming Christmas carols.

Songs we'd heard earlier that day. Classic Christmas ditties everyone knows.

But, seeing as I was totally into the Christmas spirit, I didn't just hum them.

Heck, I didn't even just sing them.

Instead, I put on a full-on show, drumming away on the shower curtain, the tile walls, the shampoo dispenser, and, well, my butt.

Yes, my butt.

In the moment, you see, it made sense. I was looking for wet, flat surfaces that gave off a resounding bang.

Enter my behind: The perfect percussive instrument.

In fact, I loved my butt-drum so much that, soon, I forgot the shower walls and curtain all together. I even cast aside the shampoo dispenser.

Instead, I chose to drum solely and exclusively on it, my own rump.

It really did the trick, in fact. So much so that I soon stopped humming and singing the carols all together.

I just drummed them out on my own hiney. Over and over and over again.

It must say something about my marriage that my husband didn't even bat an eye when I went all Blue Man Group on my own rumpus for 10 minutes straight.

In fact, it wasn't until I yelled out exuberantly, "Guess which carol I'm drumming!" that he even said anything at all.

And then, and only then, did he join into my craziness. But not by mocking me.

Oh, no.

Instead, he listened to my drum beat intently, carefully.

Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-dum-da-da-da-dummmmm!

Then he yelled out:

"Here Comes Santa Claus!"

And he was dead on. That was, in fact, the song I'd been drumming.

This only encouraged me more.

Which is why I then performed "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," all in quick succession for my new, genuinely pleased audience of one.

All, still, on my own butt.

He guessed them all correctly, batting four for four, making the game even more fun.

Which is exactly why I then did a rousing round of "Away in a Manger" on not just my butt but on his, as well.

Along with "Silent Night," "The Little Drummer Boy," and "Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire."

He guessed them all correctly.

And then, much to my surprise, he joined in.

Using all four of our cheeks, he put on a grand solo performance of "Jingle Bells" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

An actual former drummer himself, his mastery of butt-drums was impressive right off the bat.

His only loss was his poor rendition of "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," which he played only my behind, and which, we both agreed, didn't have the right pitch or surface area to get the desired effect to carry out that particular ditty.

Still, the "caroling" continued.

Until, finally, 20 minutes later, and wrinkled to prunes like toddlers in a tub full of toys, we stopped, mostly because we'd run out of carols.

And just like that, life went back to normal.

I toweled off. He toweled off. We both clambered into pajamas, set up his coffee pot for the following day, and tucked ourselves into bed.

Only 15 minutes later, when we were lying there, in the dark, respectively, did he finally have the nerve to say what we'd both been thinking:

"We just played butt carols for 45 minutes, and they're going to let us have a child next year. Something's wrong with this picture."
***
I wish I was making this up. Really.

But I'm not. I couldn't.

It was too funny. And, my friends, it actually happened.

I had the smack marks on my behind for four days to prove it.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Workout Wednesday: Working Out With Your Fetus

It's no secret.

As a trainer, my specialty is women.

Specifically, women looking for weight-loss post-partum.

I spend several hours working with small groups of these clients daily. I'm very passionate about it, and, for the most part, I find it very fulfilling.

In fact, a little selfish part of me is excited to have this baby and get back to the gym, working out the way I train others to do. I want to know what it's like.

For, as much as I enjoy what I do, I've never felt what it feels like to do it. To work out after giving birth to a teeny baby that doesn't feel so little when you're actively pushing it out of your body, often wearing and tearing at your tailbone, abdominal muscles and hip flexors in the process.

Still, that's a long ways off.

And, now, I'm having to deal with something I hadn't even considered when we started down this whole baby train.

Exercise during the first trimester.

Oh, heavens, my friends.

Never before have I lost the will to get up and off the couch as much as I have during these past few months.

I now understand why people never work out.

More specifically, pregnant people.

Because growing this kid is exhausting enough without thinking about adding in several miles of running and several pounds of weight-lifting.

Phew.

Still, I have to exercise.

It's my job.

I teach 11 classes a week. I have private clients. Sometimes, I enjoy working out on my own, too.

Yesterday alone, I walked/jogged eight miles with clients.

Eight miles after I'd puked up breakfast, lunch and dinner the day before.

At work these days, I sometimes feel like I'm living on a prayer.

But, at the same time, I've never felt tougher. I'm growing a baby, while exercising - hard - every day. Every time some male Marine gets all whiny on me during a cycling class, I can now simply point at my stomach and yell, "If I can do this, you can do this."

The thing is, though, some days, I can barely do it. I've had to make adjustments. Life in the first trimester is not normal, no matter what all those pregnancy books are saying.

So exercise, too, has to change.

Which is why I've had to learn (and want to share with you)...

Five Tips for Exercising During Your First Trimester


1. Swap out sessions for sleep

The truth is, I'm not working out like I used to. I've lost the ability, for instance, to do almost all my strength-training sessions.

Occasionally, I fit in an upper-body workout or some pre-natal yoga, but that's it. And those that know me, you know what a change that is. I love working with resistance. It's my favorite way to get in shape.

But gone are the days of heavier sculpting and lifting. At least for now.

Instead, during the times I'd normally be weight-training, I'm sleeping. Pregnancy fatigue is real, and to keep from feeling sicker than I already feel, I can't quite go at it as much as I'd like.

So, instead, I nap. Or I go to bed earlier than normal.

It doesn't make us lazy or out-of-shape. It's necessity.

Your body is taxed while it's growing a baby, and if you're craving sleep, you need it. So take it. Even if that means one less session at the gym a week.

Lastly, after a workout, if you don't have time for a nap, lay down on your left side for 20 minutes. It helps restore your regular heart-rate and improves circulation to the baby, re-invigorating you after a workout.

2. Don't drink too much

Chugging liquids is the best way to aggravate morning sickness. Trust me on this.

While staying hydrated is important for everyone, especially pregnant women, too much water too fast is not good, especially on a fairly empty stomach - something that always happens to me, as food and I are not fast friends right now.

Instead, up to 90 minutes before a workout, start sipping water, diluted fruit juice, or safe herbal teas.

Throughout the workout, continue with the intermittent sipping. Exercise will increase the sloshing in your belly, especially if it's filled with liquid, and that will make you nauseous. (I've still yet to keep liquids down after a cardio workout for this very reason.)

Then, after the workout, do the same thing: Little bits of liquid over a long period of time. They'll keep you hydrated without shocking your tummy.

3. Listen to your body

My midwives are very pro-exercise. They banned me from nothing after checking the strength of my uterus, etc.

Many low-risk women with well-rounded, holistic physicians will hear the same thing: Do what you can, as long as you don't over-do it.

But that doesn't mean you should "push through the pain," like you might if you weren't pregnant.

When something feels bad, I don't do it. Simple as that. Abdominal exercises, for example, make me sick. Deep squats tax my hips. So, I don't do them.

Once I have this baby, there will be plenty of time to push myself through that resistance. But for now, I'm listening to my body, just in case certain movements take away from my sole purpose right now - to grow a healthy child.

This is the exact reason you shouldn't start an exercise regime pregnant if you didn't have one before pregnancy. You need to be in tune with your body before pregnancy so you can listen to it while pregnant.

4. Keep some semblance of a routine

Women with active lifestyles report lower pain during pregnancy, labor, and delivery. They are stronger and tougher in natural labor. They have lower rates of gestational diabetes, swelling, and third-trimester complications.

In addition, they lose their pregnancy weight faster and easier than other woman who do not exercise during all three trimesters.

Even in the first trimester, they tend to report less water retention and morning sickness.

And, I have to say, it's true.

Granted, I'm a grade-A puker right now, but it could be worse. It could be a lot worse. And, when I'm exercising, I actually experience some of my lowest levels of nausea and pain all day.

As long as you watch your heart-rate (below one 140 or 150 bpms is recommended by most physicians), a basic exercise routine is better for you and for baby.

Ask any woman who exercised during pregnancy, and she'll agree.

For instance, my favorite client ran three miles every day of her pregnancy, save her delivery day. She had a short, easy labor and a healthy baby boy. Her son is less than two years old, and she's in better shape than any other woman I know. She's done several marathons and triathlons since his birth, plus she bikes 15 miles to and from work every day.

Her advice to all pregnant women?

"Get out and move every day. Even if you're slowly moving, you're moving. That's what counts."

5. Eat and dress for nausea

Try and get something small in your stomach before a workout, preferably a carbohydrate. My secret? An oatmeal cookie. It has some fiber and some grains. It lacks protein, but right now, my first-trimester tummy can't handle much protein. So while it's not my healthiest option, it works. It feeds me through my workout and helps fight the nausea, and, right now, that's all I care about.

Plus, on a bad day, should it come back up, it's better to throw that up then dry heave.

Trust me.

In addition, I avoid wearing tight pants while exercising. As silly as it seems, the pressure on my non-existent baby belly is nauseating. Plus, I don't want anything cutting into my circulation while I work out.

I also wear motion-sickness bands during exercise, as I'm prone to nausea during jostling. (Heck, I get car sick pregnant.) If you're prone to motion sickness, I highly recommend them.

Basically, your goal is to find out what little tricks work for you when it comes to food and workout wear. If they keep you at the gym and relatively "un-sick," then they are worthy enough to incorporate into your routine. (And share them below, please! Others can learn from your wisdom!)
***
FYI: If you are a high-risk woman, the exercise situation is going to look drastically different for you. Consult your physician before making any physical commitments or decisions.

As always, please feel free to post any questions below.

Thanks for reading, and Happy Exercising!