The Honest Truth About Post-Partum

I read the handouts on post-partum depression.

I'd been warned that everyone gets the "baby blues."

I'd been told time and again the hormonal down-surge that happens right after you have a baby is no joke; that, for many women, it's literally the weirdest, and maybe even the worst, time in their lives.

I got it.

Or, I thought I did.

And then I had a baby.

Nothing - and I do mean nothing - I'd read or been told could have prepared me for the last month of my life, complete with the extreme highs, and, even more so, the extreme lows.

It's a wonder more women don't talk about this. It's a wonder we don't warn each other more often, "Listen, lady, what you're about to experience? It's no joke. It's actually pretty horrible at times. And that's OK."

Maybe it's because we feel guilty. Maybe it's because we feel like we shouldn't be crying and filled with worry and despair while we're simultaneously holding this precious bundle of joy we so wanted. Maybe it's because no one tells us it's OK; that it's normal.

But the honest truth about post-partum is? It's hard. Real hard. Harder than anything I've ever done before.

Aside from the physical - the bleeding and recovery and the literal chest pains caused by breast-feeding a newborn constantly - there is something almost unexplainable about the emotional side of just having a baby.

You love that little babe with all your heart and soul. You can't stop staring at her sweet face. You wonder how your life will ever be the same again, and you're thrilled about it.

And then, she cries. For. No. Good. Reason.

And, because she's your baby, and because you've tried everything already, and because you're tired, and because you have no real control over your emotions, you cry, too. A lot.

I remember, at 2:30 a.m., bawling to my mom in Ella's first week of life while Ella refused to eat, sleep, or do anything but cry, wailing out myself, "I don't know what to do. Why is she so unhappy? What did I do wrong? Why doesn't my baby like me?"

This from a woman with a post-graduate degree and an extremely rational mindset.

Or, I was that woman before I had a baby.

After my mom left, and it was just me and the hubs, I also remember standing in the shower, letting the water beat down on me, hot as I could get it, while listening to Ella cry while my husband paced the house with her. Yet again.

She wanted to nurse. I knew she wanted to nurse. And nothing my husband could do would comfort her.

And, still, I just stood in that shower, crying myself. Feeling guilty because I knew, once I got out, it was going to be all about her. That I had to feed her and soothe her.

And? The truth is, I didn't want to.

I was tired and hungry and sore and my breasts looked like they'd been gnawed on by rapid dogs.

I didn't want to get out of that shower. Not even a little bit.

So I just stood there. And cried. And let the water run down my back. And I cried some more.

For the first few weeks of her life, it was more of the same.

We ventured out for dinner; Ella was angel the whole time. Then she screamed all the way home, and I cried right along with her, apologizing to her aloud for making her stay in that car-seat for 10 minutes and depriving her of comfort and food.

I had a fight with my husband on the way to run errands on a different day because I didn't want to go. Because I didn't want to leave the house, in case Ella got upset, and I had to comfort and nurse her in public. (This was at the time when my nursing pain had reached an all-time high, and I was literally grinding my teeth to get through every feeding.) I literally yelled at him then gave him the cold shoulder, mad as heck that he didn't understand. That he didn't get how much pain I was in and how traumatized I was being away from my safety zone should Ella need something.

I became irrationally mad or sad about everything: the fact that my husband didn't like the smell of the detergent I used on Ella's cloth diapers; the fact that my house was a mess, and no one seemed to feel the need to pick anything up; the fact that no one understood how much pain I was in and much pressure I felt, being the sole food-source and comforter of this little baby girl.

More than eight or nine times, I picked up the phone, ready to call my mom and beg her to come back. My first week, she was the only one who could calm me down, who I'd believe when she told me Ella was behaving as all newborns do and was as healthy as she could be.

She was the only one who could help me handle my unbelievable fears.

In fact, one of the worst parts about post-partum, for me, was the crippling worry.

I've taken care of a ton of babies in my time. I'm not easily intimidated or freaked out by them.

But nothing prepared me for the staggering pressure of having my own baby. Every noise she made, every breath she took, every sip she ate, every cry she let out - I analyzed and stressed about. What I'd see as perfectly normal in someone else's baby was terrifying in my own.

I didn't sleep for almost three days after she was born. I just watched her. Worried over her. Prayed over her. The responsibility of this little life? It was mind-boggling. And I loved her so much, in those first few days, that I knew I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to her on my watch.

And the thing is, with Ella, it's always "my watch."

I accidentally scratched her head while nursing her. She didn't even bat an eye. But I bawled.

She got a little gassy from some really garlic-y tomato sauce I ate. I cried with her and massaged her belly obsessively until she pooped.

She'd cry in her swing, her bouncy seat, my husband's arms? It was all I could not to rush to her and grab her away and try and fix the problem immediately.

I was a wreck, simply put.

I had no control over my fears; I had no control over my emotions. While Ella was growing and flourishing right in front of me, I was a basket case 90-percent of the time.

Until, finally, slowly, it started to get better.

***

It's pretty shocking, actually, how much easier it's been.

Not that I still don't have rough days. Not that I still don't worry.

But last week I'd say, slowly but surely, I began to notice improvement.

I wasn't so nervous. I wasn't so depressed. While a lot of my physical pain still exists (namely, my breasts) I'd learned to cope and began to notice ever-so-slight improvements there, as well.

My hormones, it seemed, had started to level off.

Just like that, I started to feel better; I started to feel in control again.

Not that I'm 100-percent adjusted. I still get upset if I don't get, say, my laundry done for the day. But I don't shed tears over it or lash out at someone because of it.

I've learned things can wait - and have to wait - when Ella needs me. But I've also learned that a few seconds of bawling won't hurt her, if, say, I'm using the restroom when she decides to lose her cool.

A month in, and I'm starting to feel like myself again.

***

Part of the "problem," if you will, is how I choose to parent.

Believing in a lot of "attachment parenting" leads me to hold her a lot; exclusively, on-demand breast-feed her; shun a pacifier until she's 6 weeks old; co-sleep with her; wear her, and allow her to dictate her schedule in these early stages.

It's very time-intensive. And it's not particularly forgiving on me.

Not that I'd do it any other way. But when a baby's pincer-like hands grab your amazingly sore, cut-up breast in the middle of the night while she snoozes on your chest, you can't do anything but cry.

Or when you can't eat lunch because the baby decides to cluster-feed from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., you sometimes get frustrated.

I know why women don't choose this method of infant-parenting. I have moments where, honesty, I don't blame them.

And, yet, it's working for us. For me. For Ella.

It's been the hardest thing to maintain, at times, but it's working.

Mostly thanks to the fact that I got lucky. I definitely had the "baby blues." But they didn't last forever.

It also could have been worse. I could have had full-blown post-partum depression.

Thankfully, now, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Most of the time, I can discern true issues from my post-partum, newborn-rearing haze. And I know that, honestly, the worst is mostly behind me.

Still, I wish we, as women, talked about it more. I wish we weren't riddled with guilt when it happens to us.

And I wish that, more than anything, there was some better way to prepare for it.

As a mother. And as a woman.

***

Any tips and experiences with the "baby blues" or post-partum issues? Share below! Let's rip the veil off something we all shouldn't be ashamed to experience.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

To Work or Not to Work...

I told myself I'd work right up until my due date.

I'm a week-and-a-half away from that goal.

Every day - clients, members, strangers, and even my boss - ask me, "You're still here? When are you going to stop and go have that baby?"

Honestly, I don't know what to say to them anymore.

If my original due date is wrong, which it likely is*, at this point, I could actually be working another 2.5 weeks before my due date.

That, right now, seems like a lot.

First, let me back up and say, summer-time is my least favorite season to work at gyms. The clientele and scheduling are so sporadic, thanks to the lack of a school, plus the frequent vacations people take, that sometimes, I'm running around like a crazy person all day, and others, I'm sitting around, waiting for clients who never show, cancel at the last minute, or put in a half-hearted effort if they do come. It's like this everywhere I've worked, and right now, my tender emotions are having a hard time dealing with the unpredictable nature of it all.

Motivation, at my job right now, is low.

And it's made worse by my pregnancy.

Every morning, part of me wishes I was in labor just so I won't have to go to work.

I mean, it would be nice, taking a break for a little while, even if it involves contractions and labor pains, etc.

The problem is, any break right now would be costly.

Because I'm a part-time employee - and non-salaried at that - if I don't work, I don't get paid.

I already plan on taking six weeks off after the baby is born. (Basically, I'm just taking the time the midwives deem reasonable for recovery before I return to vigorous exercise.) This means I will have six weeks without pay in my very near future.

Now, luckily, we've budgeted for that. And after those six weeks, I will be able to return full-force and bring my baby to work with me. So, really, there's no need to worry. By mid-to-late August, I expect to be back at work, Baby Girl riding in her stroller or Moby-d to my front.

In fact, just this weekend, I picked up a group of new post-partum clients, so I'll be making a bit more, even, when I go back.

I'm looking forward to that, too.

What I'm not looking forward to is the next week, two weeks, three weeks (four weeks? Dear heavens! Say it ain't so!) in which I may be still be pregnant and working.

I keep waiting for the midwives to tell me stop, but they haven't.

I keep waiting for my body to tell me stop, but it hasn't.

I keep waiting for someone, anyone, to tell me to stop, but no one has. (Other than the insane old ladies who have been eye-ing me disapprovingly since I was about 14 weeks along.)

I know I am incredibly blessed that I can keep moving at this point in the game, that I'm not on bed rest but can still lift weights, walk four to six miles a day, work with clients, and teach five spinning classes a week.

Granted, I swell and sweat and limp a bit while doing it, but it's not impossible, by any means.

Plus, ask any OB-GYN or midwife, and they'll tell you that walking and exercise are prime ways to start labor.

In other words, I'm getting paid to induce contractions. It's not like I wouldn't be walking anyway, trying to get this baby out sooner rather than later.

On top of that, everyone tells me, "You're so active, she's bound to come early."

All the midwives. My yoga teacher. Doulas. My boss - a former body-builder and mother of two.

And, yet, I'm beginning to doubt that.

The kid has been bumbling around in there since she was conceived. It's not like walking, running, cycling, and swimming are new to her. She's kind of used to it, I figure.

And while I do notice that exercise can induce contractions every day now, I also notice they're not the "real" kind.

I'm starting to wonder if the fact that I am working is, in essence, putting her off.

If, in fact, the baby is picking up on the fact that I'm still working and still, therefore, not 100-percent focused on her arrival.

It sounds hokey, but you don't have to tell me how mental this late-stage pregnancy/labor thing is.

Trust me, I get it - my emotional and mental state is hugely important in getting this baby out.

So, to be honest, if I had my way, in my heart-of-hearts, I'd burrow down and never leave my house right now. Which is saying something. Because I'm a pretty social person; I like to plan things; I like to get out.

But right now, it's taking all my effort not only to go to work but to go to church, or attend weekly get-togethers with friends, or throw the crafting afternoon I hold at my house every week.

Then again, the last thing I need is to sit around my house, watching water boil, and waiting for this baby to come.

That's only going to make this process feel longer.

So, yeah, I'm a mess, really. I don't know what to do.

So, I ask you (beg you, plead with you) what would you do? Did any of you work right up until your due date? Do you regret it? Or do you think it's the wiser, more practical option?

*Quick Note: As of right now, I've semi-committed to working until my original due date, June 17, assuming I don't go into labor before then. Then, I'm going to let myself re-evaluate my job and see how I feel. Still, I can be persuaded the other way. I'm not 100-percent committed to it yet, and I don't know why. It's only a 1.5 weeks, but it seems like an eternity right now. To further my confusion, at my appointment yesterday, the midwives agreed that they do have my due date wrong, and now, they consider June 24 my official due date. This means, likely, I would have to work 2.5 more weeks to meet the original goal I set of working right up until my due date. Can I do it? Probably, yeah. But it still seems daunting as of right now.

So, please, your advice! I need it!

Otherwise, I may be a pregnant woman working forever. Or my water may just break all over a spin bike one day.

Which, at this point, I'd probably welcome.

Yikes.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

I Want to Meet Her

Forget everything I said about due dates.

Forget everything I said about time.

Forget everything I said about "She'll come when she's ready."

I, for one, apparently have.

Because I'm over it.

O-V-E-R it.

I want to meet my baby now. I want to hold her and kiss her and feed her and cuddle her squishy little infant body in my arms for hours on end until I literally lose feeling everywhere but my heart.

I want my little girl today.

I wish I could blame all this on my body - the aches and pains and extreme fatigue that come from being 38 weeks pregnant.

But, honestly, I'm not really having it that bad. The perk to having a horrific first trimester is that, in comparison, this late stage is a cake walk.

I can handle the lack of sleep, the sore back, the creaking hips, and the sciatica. I can take the profuse sweating and inevitable swelling. I can tolerate the fact that my belly now looks like some sort of torpedo-shaped weapon of mass destruction.

It's not the physical act of being pregnant I'm done with.

It's the mental one.

You see, I wanted this child before she was conceived. Months and months before she was even a teeny, tiny dot imbedding herself in my uterus, I wanted her. Badly.

And through those tears and trials and tribulations, I waited patiently for our time. For our child to come into the world.

Then, finally, she was here. That little speck of life within me, denoted by two pink lines on a test.

And, of course, I was thrilled. Ecstatic. Elated. I'd never wanted anything so tiny and precious before, and finally, she was mine.

Or she would be. In a bit more than nine months.

So, again, I waited patiently.

I puked and took pre-natals and did yogic exercises designed to strengthen my pelvis. I put my hands on my growing belly and giggled when she kicked me and prayed when she didn't. I sewed her blankets and curtains and painted letters spelling out her precious little name.

All while I waited. Patiently. Ever so patiently.

And, so, when I hit full-term, when I was finally 37 weeks pregnant, I was calm. Pleasant, even. Ready to give her a few more weeks. After all, I'd waited all this time. The end was in sight, and the home stretch was miniscule compared to the year-long marathon we'd been slogging to get there.

Then, all that vanished. Suddenly.

About five days ago, I lost even the last trace of grace I had for this process.

I want her out. And I want her out now.

It boggles my mind that I have no idea what she looks like. No idea what she'll sound like. No idea who she is, really.

And, yet, she's mine. My daughter. The little one I've waited forever for. She's the one who will make me a mommy.

And, darn it all, I'm done waiting for that. I want to be my daughter's mommy. Now. Today.

I welcome pain, labor, contractions, anything that will get her here.

Every cramp, Braxton-Hicks, or ache I feel, I celebrate.

Yesterday alone, I had hours of cramp-y contractions; they hurt like heck. And, so, I did everything I could to encourage them. I walked. And swayed. And got on all fours and swiveled.

Two hours later, they stopped.

And I was devastated. I cried in the shower, mad at the biological force that is labor, knowing that, quite honestly, this roller-coaster I'm on could continue on just like this for weeks.

That, in fact, it was likely to go on for weeks, seeing as she's my first baby and, well, they tend not to be the earliest to the party, those first-borns.

And, still, knowing what I know, I hope and pray in vain.

My husband comes home, and now, always asks, "What's wrong?"

It doesn't take long before I'm sobbing into his shoulder, "I just want to meet her already! I want to hold her! I don't want to wait anymore! I just want her here! With us!"

I can't nest anymore. I can't work anymore. I can't smile and shake my head "No" anymore at every person at work or church or the grocery store who walks by and says, laughing, "Haven't had that baby yet, huh?"

And, honestly, I can't even explain to them why I want her out so badly.

Most people express sympathy for "my condition," especially considering the record heat wave we've had. They understand how much it stinks to go to work every day - large and in charge - when I'd much rather be going to the birth center. They sympathize with the circles under my eyes and the ache in my spine.

But they don't get that I could do all that for about another year if I had to. They don't get that my misery comes not from the aches and pains and the general unease I have in such a large frame, but from the simple truth that I just really, really want to hold my baby.

The few times I've tried to express my emotions, I get the standard, "Oh, just you wait. You'll be wishing for this when she's out and screaming her head off for no good reason."

Or, "Just enjoy the time you have with you and your husband before it's too late."

It's all I can do not to roll my eyes at them.

My husband and I enjoy each other all the time. We were ready to have a baby, and we've not looked back once. We're not exactly the couple mourning the loss of our exciting night-life. We're well aware changes are coming.

And the simple fact is, we welcome them. We both want to stay at home on a Friday night with our baby. We've waited for that chance.

And it's so close, we can almost taste it.

And, yet, it's not.

I know that, for instance, no matter how much red raspberry leaf tea I drink, how much evening primrose oil I ingest or insert, and how many miles I walk and swim and dance and swing, I can't drive her out.

I can't make her emerge due to sheer will. Or due to my sheer desire to love her.

Babies come in their own time.

But I do wonder how much longer I'll be able to do this.

I wonder how much longer I can wait to see her sweet face.

I wonder how many more fake contractions I'll feel, bouts of nausea I'll suffer, or sleepless nights I'll experience before she finally decides to make her grand entrance into our world.

It's frustrating, all the wondering. And, honestly, it's a darn good thing I'm so very anti-pitocin and anti-elective C-section, because if I didn't know any better, I'd be very easily talked into an induction.

My emotions are too fragile and my hopes too high to want anything else but to get my baby out of there already.

My mother used to tell me, when I wanted something badly as a child, that "Patience is a virtue."

I, for one, seem to wholeheartedly lack this virtue as of late.

My patience is shot. I've been patient long enough. I've been patient for what feels like forever.

I want to meet my baby. Now.

Full-Term Schizophrenia

I am 37 weeks pregnant. Full-term.

Done. Cooked. Finito.

Except, not quite.

Since I was about eight weeks along, I've been skeptical of my due date: June 17.

I'm almost 100-percent positive I know when we conceived this baby, seeing as my husband is in the military, works very odd, sometimes largely inconvenient hours, and had to be present in order for this child to be created.

So, with that knowledge, before going to the midwives, I originally calculated my due date at June 21 or June 22.

I was shocked then that, after the midwives noted my last period and the week I thought we conceived, plus gave my uterus a good old groping, they put my due date at June 17.

Not possible, I thought.

But I'm no expert. So I went along with it.

With only one ultrasound to my name so far, given to me at 20ish weeks along, I stopped questioning them after awhile. They said the baby's growth and my growth was right on target, and any minor discrepancies they noted came from the fact that I'd lost so much weight in the first 18 weeks, thanks to a steady diet of no food and constant upchucking.

But over the last three weeks, I've seen the midwives twice.

And both times, they've pronounced that the baby and I were "perfectly healthy but measuring a bit small."

Frankly, this shocked me. Women in my family tend to have large babies. Eight pounds or more. (And it's not because of excessive weight gain. They've always gained on the low end of the recommended amount of weight for a pregnant woman, and still, 8+ pound babies abounded. It's just in our genetics.)

But here I am, apparently gestating a teeny one.

Now, they could be wrong. Even the midwives admit that. But their track record is largely impressive. And my belly is getting tight enough now that I can see Baby Girl's head and butt and back and limbs when they press around my uterus.

From the looks of things, she's perfect. But yeah, she's a bit small.

So, inevitably, my due date came back up in conversation.

They said they're beginning to wonder if I might be due more along the lines of June 24 - a week later than they originally intended.

They went so far as to change my due date on all my records, so as to avoid a mandatory induction if, in fact, that later due date may be right. (South Carolina requires babies to be indued at 42 weeks gestation if you haven't given birth on your own yet. As I've said before, I will not be medically induced unless I'm forced into it by law, so this was an agreed-upon decision between my midwives and I, so as to stay as true to my birth plan as possible.)

The midwives also asked me, kindly, to "try not to go into labor until June 3 [next week] at the earliest."

Yeah, sure, no problem. Because I totally have control over that, I wanted to say, sarcastically.

Instead, I managed to eke out a weak smile and nod.

***

Luckily, my intuition is telling me that this whole labor thing isn't happening any time soon.

She's got a few weeks, I'm figuring.

She's head down but still high in my belly. She's still small. I'm not running out of room to eat or breathe. And I've yet to feel body parts kicking and jutting up into my ribs. All her movements still dance around my mid-line.

Honestly, I don't feel half-bad, either. Sure, I'm tired. And sore. But I'm doing OK. In fact, I'm pretty chipper most days.

I'm still working (and working out) my regular hours. I'm doing all my normal errands and get-togethers and appointments. And, in fact, I'm doing all that with noticeably less contractions then I've experienced in prior weeks.

I really don't expect this baby to show up until mid-to-late June, honestly.

I just feel too good.

***

Then again, what do I know? I've never done this before. I'm a total full-term pregnancy noob.

She could come tomorrow. Tiny or not.

She could come in a month's time. Big and filled out with adorable baby rolls.

I'm over being pregnant, but who's to say Baby Girl's truly ready yet?

Then again, watch me be all, "I"m not going into labor any time soon," only to wake up tomorrow and find my water's broken all over our as-of-now unprotected mattress.

***

As you can see, I've stopped trusting my own intuition.

On a good day, I find myself waffling back and forth, up and down, left and right, wondering - always wondering - when she'll decide to kick-start this whole birthing process.

Still, if the foot I saw projectile-ing out of my belly this morning is any indication, she's kicking around in there, happy as a clam.

My water, if nothing else, should remain intact.

***

So, yeah, I'm full-term. Kind of. Maybe. Sort of.

I could go into labor any time. Kind of. Maybe. Sort of.

But honestly, I'm not counting on it. Not soon, anyway.

As of right now, I refuse to be a watch-dog. I refuse to put myself and my daughter on a deadline, if you will.

I'm a very schedule-oriented person, but the fact remains that pregnancy and childbirth has no set time-line. She'll come when she's ready, and no date on any calendar is going to rush her.

So I'm letting myself off the hook. It's business as usual around here.

Sure, I'm taking my 18 labor-prep supplements a day (my midwives do not mess around when it comes time to "tone and strengthen the uterus," as they say.) And I'm drinking my red-raspberry leaf tea like it's going out of style, per their instructions.

But I'm still working and planning dates with girlfriends and making weekend plans with my husband.

I have no agenda for this baby, whether I'm full-term today or not.

She's coming soon enough, and she's coming when she's ready.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

A Little Sensitive, Perhaps?

My husband will talk to random strangers at the drop of a hat.

He'll turn around and engage anyone in the grocery-store line. Just talk and talk and talk to them about everything. About what's in their cart. Their kids. How they're feeling. Everything.

It's kind of endearing. And a little embarrassing because, let's face it, not everyone wants to talk to a relative stranger about their preference of breakfast cereals.

But, well, it's him.

And, lately, it's kind of been me.

You see, I seem to always end up at the grocery store during Senior-Citizen Hour. It's always me and the old people, jockeying for the freshest grapes and the crispest celery.

And, because apparently senior citizens don't have much else going on, they'll talk to me, and I'll talk to them.

In the canned foods' aisle. Near the dairy. By the bakery. In the self-out checkout line.

I, inevitably, end up talking to the plethora of senior citizens that grocery shop at the same time as I do.

So, on Friday, it wasn't at all odd that I walked out of the commissary pushing a cart next to an older gentlemen and his grand-daughter.

We were talking about coupons as we walked to our respective cars, which happened to be parked next to each other.

Now, it has to be said, it was very tired. I'd worked a full day, watched a friend's 10 month old, and been up on my feet preparing a dinner for 16.

I was waddling on very swollen, flip-flopped legs and panting from the baby kicking my lungs.

But, still, I kept up with my senior-citizen compatriot all the way until we got to our cars.

Our conversation finally dropped off as we both began loading our groceries into our trunks.

Then, as I finished, I waddle-walked to the driver's side of the car and started to get in, when I heard it.

Straight from the mouth of my former elderly gentlemen friend.

"Look at you, such a big girl, getting yourself up into that car all by yourself. Nice job, getting your big self up in there!"

I was shocked. Awed. And royally offended.

How dare he? Especially after I showed him my coupon for organic chicken broth? How dare he - when he could clearly saw me waddling and limping to my car - insult me like that? How dare he - when I didn't even grunt trying to get myself into the driver's seat - call me 'big'?

I whipped around, ready to face him.

Ready to stand up for large pregnant women everywhere, who, though it may be true, should never be called "big" in such patronizing tones.

I was about to go off on his old, rude, tactless butt.

And, then, I saw it. Right when I turned around.

He was standing at the passenger side door of his van, groceries loaded.

Looking down at his not-yet-3-year-old grand-daughter.

Who was clambering up into the vehicle and getting into her own car seat.

All by her "big self."

***

I think we can add "raging, irrational hormones" to another symptom of late pregnancy that I have lost complete control over.

Happy Monday, everyone!

A Denial Dinner

I've decided to throw a dinner party.

Granted, I'm 36 weeks pregnant, having contractions, and still haven't packed my mommy-and-baby bags yet.

But, no, I'm cooking dinner for 15 instead.

Both the hubs and I desperately wanted to have our friends over for one more dinner before Baby Girl arrives - and we're stuck eating turkey sandwiches and leftover jars of olives for the next few months - so, we planned a dinner.

For tonight.

Dear me, what I was smoking?

By the time I normally get home from work on Fridays, I'm totally beat.

It's all I can do to get myself in the shower and wash off the I-Just-Taught-Four-Classes sweat off my body.

And that was before I got pregnant.

Now, I'm positively in a coma by the time I get home Friday afternoons.

But today, I can't be. I've got to make one more trip to the store, prep all my dishes, and cook and serve a taco-and-fajita bar for 15.

It's going to be fun. In the end. I'll be glad we did it. I always am.

But I can't help but see the irony that I haven't so much as purchased a nursing bra, but I'm obsessing over the tequila-lime marinade for my chicken.

Apparently, it's easier right now for me to entertain than to make sure I have enough giant maxi pads on hand for the post-partum recovery.

My husband had to convince me to install the car-seat yesterday.

I kept maintaining we had plenty of time.

I still haven't set up our bedroom for co-sleeping.

I still maintain we have time.

And I still haven't found the perfect "Bring Baby Home" outfit.

But, darn it, we have time!

Except we don't. We really, truly don't. (Even the midwives warned me to start getting ready. NOW!)

And, yet, here I am, browning taco meat. Slicing olives. Whipping up guacamole. Shredding cheese.

Because I totally have my priorities in line.

And because, if I don't think about it too much - if I ignore my contractions and my waddling and my ever-increasing pelvic pain - I can still trick myself into thinking that we have time.

Fajita, anyone?

***

Happy Friday, everyone! If you need me this weekend, I'll be packing up my mommy-and-baby bags.

Maybe.

How Much Longer Can I Do This? Exercise During Your Third Trimester

I have developed a real love-hate relationship with my job over these last few weeks.

For one thing, I'm constantly sore. I'm talking Holy-Cow-I-Feel-Like-I-Just-Did-an-Ironman sore.

It's not the exercise, though; it's the pregnancy.

And another thing is that, honestly, I'm just over it. I'm tired. All the time. When I have to get up at 4:30 a.m. to go meet a client for a circuit-training session, I pretty much want to kill someone.

My body is full-on rebelling at the thought of doing anything but lumbering from my rocker to my bed and back again.

Case in point: Yesterday morning, where I ended up walking with some of my post-partum clients for about six miles. At mile five, my left hand just swelled up. Ballooned right up like a peach. It was bursting above my watch and all around my wedding ring. It was freakish.

And it was all thanks to the fact that I'd spent the last five miles walking with Baby Girl pushing on a nerve on my left side. I could feel it the entire time. But darn it, I couldn't get her to move, and the result? One puffy, swollen left hand.

Lovely.

And, yet, I'm not quitting. I refuse to, in fact. I may be miserable, but according to the doctor and midwives, I'm perfectly fine. Baby Girl is thriving. And now, more than ever, I firmly believe in exercise during pregnancy.

My last pregnant client delivered her third child over a month ago. She had her last session with me a day before she went into labor at 39 weeks. Within three days of her son's birth, she reported she was "feeling great, much better than I did with my first two kids."

Her births were exactly the same with all three children, as were her pregnancies. The only difference was, during this pregnancy, she exercised religiously from Week One to Week 39. She attributes her quick recovery, weight-loss, and general lack of labor soreness to her consistent exercise regimen during her son's gestation, and so do I.

In addition, new research reveals that consistent cardio exercise during pregnancy actually builds babies with stronger hearts. (Better yet, months and years away from their birth, children of mothers who did cardiovascular exercise still had stronger hearts than those born to mothers who did not.)

We're giving our children scientifically proven advantages in the womb by exercising. Even though some days it seems impossible, I definitely want to give my child that gift.

Not to mention the fact that no athlete goes into a big race or game without properly training for it. Birth, in fact, is the same way. I have to have the strength, and more importantly, the will-power and endurance, to withstand a very intense physical process.

So, exercise I shall.

But what does it look like, exercise this late in the game? It honestly depends on the day and the time. I handle myself much like I handle my pregnant clients, and then sometimes, I push myself further because I know my body, and I know my limits.

Regardless, I listen to my body more than I ever have before. It's been the key to my success in this final trimester.

So, now, I leave you with four tips for exercising during your third trimester:

1. Try and keep things consistent

By this, I mean, if you go to the gym four times a week, keep going four times a week. You don't have to do the same thing every time you go. Sometimes, my energy and body are so lethargic that I literally can just walk on the treadmill for 30 minutes. But you do need to go, regardless of how little or how much you can fit in once you get there.

With your ever-growing child, your body is already experiencing a fair bit of inconsistency this late in the game. You'll notice random swelling, constipation, and awkward bloody noses, for instance, in very-pregnant women.

But exercise helps reduce all those late-stage symptoms by keeping your blood circulating and your body aligned.

Some days, you might be up-and-at 'em at the gym, taking a kickboxing class or mastering the Stairmaster, and other days you may just be barely moving.

But you are moving. And you're there. And that's all that matters.

Don't expect the same performance you delivered during your first and second trimesters. As much as it bugs me, personally, I also know it's just not going to happen.

Your body is too busy growing a human. You simply don't have the energy or mobility left to do what you were doing even a month ago. Therefore, just shoot for quality movement of some kind every day. That's better than most women do when they're this broken down by their pregnancies.

2. Watch your your body's fluids - both those in and those coming out

Obviously, you have to drink a lot of water to stay hydrated while pregnant. Exercising moms need to be drinking even more so.

Good water intake will help reduce swelling, and it will help lubricate your joints, which are already in a fair amount of pain from holding up you, the baby, and the inevitable extra baby weight.

Furthermore, though, you need to pay attention to what liquids are leaving your body. If you experience drastic mucus loss after exercise, or your notice bleeding this late in the game, you may be pushing it too hard.

In addition, swelling - and no strong urge to pee after you exercise - may mean you're dehydrated.

And loose bowels may mean you're instigating contractions with your exercise. (This has happened to me quite a bit, but the baby has been fine, so I've been allowed to continue exercising. Check with your doctor or midwife if you're prone to this, though.)

Especially those women who exercise outside need to be consistent with water-and-veggie/fruit intake before exercising. The heat will increase your chances of swelling, for instance, but eating and drinking a diet high in water, electrolytes, and fluids will help you and your pregnant belly cope with the elements.

3. Notice physical weaknesses and work to fix them

I have a friend who is about 28 weeks pregnant who has major pain and soreness in her tailbone. She's been working to strengthen the area with several yogic exercises, as well as chiropractic adjustments.

I myself have incredibly sore hips, knees, and ankles. I've been stretching, massaging and strengthening the areas with resistance bands before I go into labor.

Every body has weaknesses, and you can bet your bottom dollar you will notice them more when you're in labor.

You have to compensate for that now, before the baby comes.

Simple strengthening exercises, stretching, and massage can do the trick for most of us. I, for one, think every pregnant woman should be adjusted by a licensed massage therapist or chiropractor before labor. Alignment is important, and exercise can help with that.

Make sure, no matter what you're doing at the gym, you maintain good posture, keeping your joints aligned and your core engaged (as much as you can, considering your abdominal muscles have now separated to make room for the baby.) Wear braces on your ankles, knees, or lower belly for support if it helps. And keep in mind that you're working to strengthen the parts of your body that are going to help you get your baby out easier and safer.

That will help motivate you when your body feels it's typical third-trimester lethargy and soreness.

4. Assess certain exercises with your physician

Some midwives and doctors tell their patients to be wary of squats starting at around 36 weeks because the movement can force the baby into "sunny-side-up," or face-up, position.

Others warn you to stay off your flat back to prevent hang-ups in circulation.

Still others tell you any and everything you can do is A-OK and guaranteed to help induce your labor. However, almost all practitioners want you to wait until 37 weeks (full-term) to go into active labor, so they may warn pregnant women against over-exertion and exercise of any kind.

It all depends on every woman's individual body and baby. And, in order to be sure about what's safe at this point in the pregnancy, ask your doctor specific questions about what you should and shouldn't be doing.

They will be the best ones to assess if you're at risk for a breech birth, premature labor, or an early rupture of membranes. And they will be the ones who can tell you what exercises will help or hinder your situation.

Some trainers do have the proper training to help you with exercise selection and to monitor your exertion level, but many don't. Few programs and licenses require trainers to learn extensively about exercise and pregnant women, especially pregnant women in their third trimester. So, unless you have a trainer specifically trained to work with pre-natal mamas, double-check everything with your doctor, just in case.

***

If you missed it, here's my posts on exercise during your first and second trimesters.

And, as usual, remember that all exercise regimens during pregnancy are typically designed and recommended for low-risk pregnant women. Women considered high-risk should consult with their physicians before doing any exercise at any point during their pregnancy.

Until next week, Happy Workout Wednesday, everyone!

Sometimes, I Forget

Yesterday, at pre-natal yoga, I ran into a wall.

Seriously.

Belly-first, in fact.

We were using the wall for our balance poses - because no 30+ week pregnant woman should attempt Warrior Three without something to hold onto - and I literally turned toward the wall and smashed my belly right into it.

Why? you ask. Why would I do something so gosh-darn clumsy and ridiculous?

Because, my friends, I literally forgot I was pregnant.

Honestly.

I was at pre-natal yoga, and I forgot I was pregnant.

I forgot I had a giant baby belly protruding off the front of me. I forgot that all the jabs and kicks and little foot imprints that come out of me aren't some wicked form of indigestion. I forgot I've spent the last 35 weeks growing a human being inside me.

I literally ran myself into a wall because I forgot I looked like this:

35 weeks pregnant

Talk about baby brain.

***

I can't explain it, but I have to try: This "end of your pregnancy" thing is a real trip. I'm not in denial, but disbelief, that this baby is coming so, so soon.

I've been pregnant and preparing for her for so long that it's almost become my status quo. And now that she's almost here, I'm not even sure how to feel or think or act anymore. Things are shifting. Things are changing. My world is about to get rocked.

It's the craziest thing ever, let me tell you.

Even if I forget it sometimes.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

And There's The Wall

Lest we all forget, I'm stubborn.

Which is why I insisted a while back that I was going to run a few 5Ks 30+ weeks pregnant.

Nothing eggs me on more than people telling me not to do something. Or, better yet, telling me I can't do something.

My midwives know this all too well.

In fact, when I told them I was going to run another 5K last week, one just looked at me and delivered the line that could characterize my whole pregnancy:

"OK. It's not like you'd listen to me if I told you not to do it, anyway."

She totally gets me, doesn't she?

So, yes, despite the fact that the last 5K I ran three weeks ago helped put me into a bout of false labor, I decided I'd run another one this past weekend, too.

The cause was a good one (research for post-partum depression) and an even bigger group of my clients was participating.

Plus, my husband said he'd do it with me.

So I was in.

Then, a week prior, I finally began to feel the full weight of my pregnancy.

Everything hurt. My posture was totally off. The extra 13 pounds I'm carting around made most things difficult. I couldn't even sleep comfortably. And my uterus loved to have Braxton-Hicks contractions at the most inopportune times.

I was sore just from living.

So, I succumbed. On the morning of the 5K, I told my clients, point-blank, "I'm not going to even try and run this race. I'm going to walk the entire thing."

No one even batted an eye.

I was 34 weeks pregnant, for goodness sake. I was just lucky I got my running tights on that morning, and they knew it.

Then, the starting gun went off.

And I started to run.

I swear, I don't know what came over me. It wasn't like I wanted to do it. The first step was painful, in fact. I had to pee almost immediately. Every lift of a foot and slam down on pavement felt like torture.

And, yet, I was running. Right after I said I wouldn't be.

What is wrong with me?

The thing is, I'm no runner, but I can run. But what I was doing Saturday morning? That was not running. This was some sort of medieval torture that I seemed to insist on exerting on myself.

I basically hobble-jogged along. It was a cross between a waddle because of my belly, a Kegel because of my bladder, and a shuffle, which is about the only way I can run these days.

When I hit mile marker No. 1, I don't think I've ever felt more discouraged.

Children, old men, and women with umbrella strollers were breezing past me. The police escorts for the race were laughing at me. And one woman, who lived in a house along the race's path, came out onto her front porch with her two toddlers and positively yelped, "Dear God!" when she saw me.

The last time I'd felt so awkward in a race, I was 11 years old, at my first swim meet, when my goggles fell off after I dove in, and I had to swim the entire 100-meters blind as a bat and thrashing.

Up until this weekend, I've never wanted to quit a race so badly.

Then I hit mile marker No. 2.

At this point, I began to think I'd never make it.

Two miles had never felt worse.

Still, I kept running, ruing the day I signed up for this stupid race. I didn't know if I was madder at the circumstances or myself. I just wanted to stop running.

Then, from a distance, I saw it. My savior. A red hat, bobbing along on a big, old body.

My husband, come to rescue me.

Apparently, the boy had finished the race ahead of me then turned around to race back and make sure I wasn't on the trail somewhere in the throes of early labor.

I immediately perked up.

As if I was running the Boston Marathon and not a measly 3+ miles, I yelled out to the clients behind me, "We must be getting close! There's my husband!"

He's no runner, either. He couldn't have been that far ahead of me, I thought.

He did an about-face once he reached me and began to jog beside me. There was a new spring in my step. Thanks to him, I could sense the finish line, and, more importantly, the glorious bathrooms that lay ahead.

But, then, it didn't come.

I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And running. And running. And running.

After every turn we rounded, after every corner we turned, I thought we'd see it. And?

Nada.

I was losing steam - and bladder control - fast.

So, finally, my inner whiny-girl came out, and I managed to huff out, "Where is it, babe? Where's the finish line? We have to be close, right?"

But he wouldn't even answer me.

Apparently, it wasn't that close.

Apparently, 3.2 miles wasn't quite up yet.

Apparently, I looked desperate enough that, instead of telling me how far I had left, he just said, "You know, you can walk if you need to. You're 34 weeks pregnant, babe!"

But I wouldn't. I couldn't. (The running shuffle I was doing was the only thing holding my bladder's contents in. Stopping could have been very detrimental.)

Until, finally, I finished.

Not dead-last, but close.

Oh, heavens, it wasn't pretty.

I slowed down enough to grab a bottle of water and yell directly at my husband, "I am not running again until your child is out of me, got it?"

The entire finish-line posse laughed.

I, meanwhile, wanted to pass out.

I consoled myself about my shoddy performance with a trip to the bathroom and a bagel from a concession stand.

Then, I asked to leave.

I was having super-painful, maybe-false-labor Braxton-Hicks contractions yet again. And all I wanted to do was lie down.

So, we left. Or, rather, we were leaving, when, from the stadium, we heard my husband's name.

The stinker had won second place in his male age group for his darn 5K. He even got a medal.

I, meanwhile, wouldn't have even placed in the senior-citizen division.

***

I can't believe I'm saying it - and meaning it - but this time, I really think I'm done.

I don't think I'll be running anymore during the last five or six weeks of this pregnancy.

I'll keep working out with my clients and cycling and walking and lifting weights, which all are tough these days but bearable, but the running can't happen anymore.

My body, and bladder, just can't take it anymore.

No more 5Ks. No more race-training days. And, therefore, no more false labor contractions, God willing.

I've done enough. I just want to rest now.

We'll let me husband run all the races and win all the awards for the next six weeks.

I'm too busy growing this darn baby.

***

Happy Workout Wednesday, everyone!

The Poster Child for Pro-Life

I have been really lucky throughout my pregnancy.

While tons of pregnant women get the whole, "Oh my gosh! You're huge! You must be about to pop!" when they're barely 20 weeks pregnant, I haven't.

Thanks to the fact that I've measured fairly small throughout my pregnancy, others rarely comment on my size. Other than a few wayward, passive-aggressive comments about my exercise habits or natural childbirth practices, most people smile at me, congratulate me, and leave me well enough alone when they see me coming, belly first.

Then, while in Florida on vacation, I went to church with my parents on Easter Sunday, like we do every year.

It was lovely and normal and other than having to rush out halfway through to use the bathroom, along with several other senior citizens who also seem to struggle with bladder control, the morning had gone off without a hitch.

The last chords of the last hymn died away, and we - along with everyone else - began to exit the pew.

I'd spent the entire 90 minutes prior sitting next to my husband, on my one side, and a woman, on my other side, whom we didn't know.

She seemed nice enough. There was nothing at all alarming about her.

Until, as she began to exit the pew in front of me, she stopped. Turned back around. And stared at me.

And, with a wide, but serious smile, positively shouted at the top of her lungs, "THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING LIFE!"

I stared back at her, dumb-struck.

I had no idea what to say.

I mean, a simple "You're welcome" was not going to do it.

And anything else I came up with off the top of my head was either far too inappropriate or came off as downright disrespectful to a woman who was old enough to be my grandmother.

Though my own grandmother would have far more tact and would never deliver that line and then stare at a poor pregnant girl, awaiting some sort of a response.

So, I just stared back, trying to ignore the 20 people around us, who, thanks to the woman's loud, booming voice, had heard what she'd said to me and promptly whipped their heads around to see what, I'm imagining, they thought to be some poor, knocked-up teenager who'd had to make a tough choice at such a tender, young age.

It was all sorts of uncomfortable.

Finally, I managed to re-arrange my stair into a smile. After all, the woman was still there, still staring, still waiting for my response. I just kept nodding and grinning like an idiot, until, finally, the woman, with her eyes still locked on mine, got pushed along by the crowd.

My husband, meanwhile, was behind me, dying laughing. Unabashedly.

"That has to be the most awkward thing you could say to a pregnant woman ever," he said.

I couldn't help but agree.

I mean, I don't exactly look young. I look my age. I'm 26. I wear a wedding ring. I was at church with my husband, holding his hand, on which he was wearing his wedding ring.

I don't exactly scream "Un-Wed Teen Mother" when I walk by you.

Three weeks later, and I'm still not sure how I was supposed to respond to the woman's statement.

As my pre-natal yoga teacher said, "That has to be the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to a pregnant woman."

I've yet to find a person who can help interpret what the woman at church meant and why she felt the need to say it.

Short of full-out saying, "Thank you for not aborting your baby," she pretty much blurted out the first thing that popped in her head.

The first, most awkward thing ever.

***

I do realize she may have meant something totally different than what her words conveyed.

And, yet, I have no idea why she had to announce it so loudly and stare me down so boldly after the fact.

It was just odd. And, honestly, wholly uncomfortable.

It really goes to show you that people will literally say anything to a pregnant woman. There are no boundaries when it comes to the baby bump, it seems.

It totally figures, though, that I'd get the one interaction where I get to make an entire section of a our church feel uncomfortable.

Honestly, I'd rather she'd gone with the whole "Oh my gosh! You're huge! You must be about to pop!" insult.

That, I think, I could handle. In some ways, I actually find that less insulting.

So, tell me, what's the craziest remark you've ever gotten as a pregnant woman? Ever heard a real hum-dinger hoisted upon some poor, innocent lady who just happens to be with child?

It's Monday, so let's share in the comments below!

Welcome to the End

My belly button is thisclose to being an outtie.

I'm waddling.

It takes serious work to heave myself up and out of any seated position.

I can't bend over any more without a big "Harumph!"

I tried to lift the baby's crib mattress over my head yesterday and felt my spine radiate with pain.

My Braxton-Hicks are starting to hurt.

Baby Girl's movements are super visible all the time now.

I'm always itchy.

I have two solitary stretch marks on my left boob.

I've grown out of my first pair of maternity pants.

I'm craving every single food I've been told not to eat in order to avoid a "fat baby."

I can literally feel pain in my, um, lady parts about once every two hours.

And doing absolutely anything and everything leaves me tired and breathless.

As my midwife said to me on Monday, "Welcome to the end, girlfriend."

I have to admit, once I got out of my nightmarish morning sickness phase, I've had it pretty easy, as far as pregnancy goes.

I haven't gained a ton of weight. I've had plenty of energy. I've been able to maintain my normal up-and-at-'em lifestyle. And I've even been able to fit into a few of my larger, non-maternity shirts on a good day.

I had no complaints.

Then, about a week ago, things seemed to change.

Everything takes effort. I'm tired all the time but can't sleep. I'm always a bit queasy. I feel positively heavy and huge in every single way possible. My belly is pulling me so far forward, my back always hurts. Getting in and out of the car is a production. And when Baby Girl rolls over, I can now see limbs and a butt shifting around in there.

Dear heavens. I'm super-pregnant.

I went into my appointment Monday convinced I was going to get a scolding for my giant size. It took two of my midwives to convince me otherwise. They told me I was measuring small to normal. They felt the baby, who they also said was measuring small to normal. They assured me I was "all baby."

"Just look at her," one said. "On your back, all you can see is your baby poking out."

Near tears, I barely managed to eke out, "But why is everything so hard, then?"

They just looked and me and smiled.

"Welcome to the end," another midwife said. "Welcome to the end."

My emotions, it seems, got the better of me.

I cried opening gifts at my shower last weekend. I cried organizing the nursery yesterday. I cried when I came home from work and found my dog waiting expectantly for me at the door because I'd forgot to feed him before I left.

A bunch of my post-partum clients have assured me that, at this stage, this is all perfectly normal.

As one mom said, "Around 34 weeks, life just starts to stink. Everything is hard."

I hit 34 weeks today.

Part of it is probably my own disbelief.

We're so close. We're really close, in fact.

I keep getting inquiries from my boss, asking when my last day will be, asking when I'm starting my maternity leave. I find myself scheduling the next six weeks with tons of things we need to do before the baby arrives. I realize that, when shopping, there's no point in browsing the maternity section anymore; I'm going to be out of those clothes soon, anyway.

My neighbor, who is due the same day as me, reminded me that I could go into labor as early as three weeks from now.

I promptly freaked out: It can't be that close. I can't be ready. I'm not ready.

Time has truly flown.

And yet, she really is almost here.

After all, I spent yesterday unrolling 200+ diapers from a diaper cake. I've been washing, washing, washing baby clothes. I read an instruction manual on baby rectal thermometers. And I finally admitted to myself that I was probably not going to be able to run - and instead, would have to power walk - the 5K I'm signed up for on Saturday.

Life has changed. It's shifted. In essence, it's taken on a whole new meaning.

My husband comes home from work now and sets out to assemble baby gear.

He's put together a high chair, car seat, and stroller in the last 48 hours. He helped me put on Baby Girl's bedding. He's even agreed to put off buying his birthday present for another week so we can get a few more things from Babies 'R Us.

He's a changed man. Either that, or he senses that I'm on a mission. With a deadline. That's fast approaching.

Plus, he's the one that keeps finding me teetering around the house, carrying loads of baby blankets, dropping onesies everywhere, and staining myself on parts of my T-shirts that are no longer visible to me because they now fall in the elusive "below the bump" area.

I'm such a loud, clumsy, painfully groaning force around the house, I find he's constantly yelling out to me, "Are you OK?"

To which I respond, amid grunts, "Yes, I'm just getting off the toilet" or some other pedestrian excuse for my moaning.

The best part is, he doesn't even bat an eye. If he's nearby, he sometimes even offers me a hand.

We really have become a whole new kind of couple. Our house has become a whole new kind of house. We're encountering a whole new set of feelings and emotions and priorities.

We're nearing the finish line, indeed. As hard as it is to believe, we're really almost there.

Welcome to the end, indeed. Welcome to the end.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

A Proud Pregnancy Moment

My husband is not a fan of maternity pictures.

I think he's been scared off by one-too-many of those infamous pregnancy shots where a couple is scantily clad and wrapped in transparent gauze while lounging in some sort of meadow.

He's all, "What the heck do you do with those suckers? I mean, I don't want that hanging in my living room!"

Meanwhile, I'm all, "But it's an important moment to capture in our lives!"

So, we compromised. I swore that there would be no nudity involved - maybe a peek of bare baby belly, but nothing more - and he acquiesced to be in a few of the shots himself.

Then, last week, while on vacation in Florida, we took advantage of a breezy evening and a good friend's talents and set off hoping to score one good maternity photo.

Something we could hang in the nursery in a tasteful, 5x7 size.

Something we could treasure and remember.

Something where I looked pregnant but thin and where the hubs' eyes weren't squinted shut while he smiled.

Ten minutes into our adventure, we found the perfect spot: A park, with a lake, and plenty of wooden boardwalks and large trees and character.

We set out shooting, and we immediately attracted attention.

After all, others were walking their dogs, kayaking, or simply enjoying a picnic supper.

Meanwhile, we were standing there trying to look pensive and thin. Yet pregnant. And happy. And aglow but not too glow-y, if you know what I mean.

In other words, we were the odd-balls.

The photographer, my best friend's husband, snapped away, while my best friend herself coached us along and yelled out advice.

While it was a bit awkward - after all, we're no models - it was going well. We even remembered to take off my husband's strictly utilitarian and ugly-as-all-get-out military watch.

Then, the photographer positioned us side-by-side on a perfectly sturdy, nice, wooden walkway.

He started taking another series photos.

And my world started spinning.

I broke out in a cold sweat, but I was flushed, then ghost-white. I felt like I was about to faint. I was lethargic and simultaneously light-headed. And I knew, better than I'd ever known anything, I was about to lose it.

I was about to throw up.

I managed to eke out a quick "Stop!" before stumbling over to a nearby bench.

The hubs followed me, slightly concerned.

Meanwhile, I breathed heavily and panted out the words, "Water! I need water!"

My friend, realizing what was happening, rushed to the car to get her re-usable cup. She also grabbed half a PB&J sandwich she'd made for herself earlier that day. One look at my white face, and she knew my blood sugar had plummeted.

But all it took was for me to peek at the peanut butter and bread before realizing I was too far gone.

I was not getting that down my throat, as much as I needed to.

In fact, I was going to do the exact opposite.

I was going to throw up. And right away.

So, kneeling over a bunch, my husband behind me, I did just that.

I dry-heaved and wretched and vomited up at least a cup-full of the few remains left in my stomach. All while my "entourage," if you will, stood around me, and park full of complete strangers stared oddly at the vomiting, sweating, not-at-all-glowing pregnant girl.

Oh, it was lovely. A crowning achievement in my tales of pregnancy woes, I have to say.

While I'm quite the expert at vomiting after a horrible first trimester, even this incident shocked me.

My low blood-sugar had left me with no control. I might as well have been prancing around the park naked, wrapped in the very gauze my husband dreaded, for all I cared. I was so sick to my stomach, I wanted to lay down right there and nap amid all those staring pairs of eyes.

Luckily, my husband managed to look at me for only a brief second before forcefully admitting, "We're done. No more."

We were back in our car and heading back to my parent's house, where we were staying, before I knew it.

But not before taking one last, charming photo of me, the hubs, and a tiny pile of what appears to be mush, i.e., pregnancy vomit.

I bet you all can't wait till I post those, can you?

***

Thanks to one crazy day, I'd totally lost track of the fact that I went almost seven hours without eating anything.

Once they got me home, hydrated, and fed, I was fine. And, frankly, a bit humbled.

After all, I should have known better.

The worse part is, I'm now dreading seeing our pregnancy photos. We barely got in any of the shots we wanted before my unfortunate upchuck.

I'm pretty convinced we didn't get anything usable at all.

So, turns out my husband got his wish. No maternity photos will likely be gracing the walls of this house.

Unless, of course, I intend to mat and frame a picture of vomit. Because that's way more classy than nude meadow-frolicking, now, isn't it?

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

And Now, For Something Completely Different (Hopefully)

Last week, at the midwives' office, I told them a secret.

It's something I haven't admitted to anyone. Not even my own husband.

But lately, when I'm in the throws of washing new cloth diapers or answering the question "When is your due date, again?" for the bazillion-th time at work, I think about it.

I ponder it.

Heck, I obsess over it.

And the truth is, sometimes, I'm actually sick of chatting about it.

I'm referring to my impending state.

Because, honestly, I'm tired of talking about it.

I'm tired of talking about pregnancy.

I'm tired of talking about babies.

I'm over and done with the fact that everyone around me is all "Newborn-Fetus-Infant" all the time.

Literally, sometimes, it's enough to make me scream. I even annoy myself, what with all the baby thoughts that go running through my head at any given second.

Currently, part of the problem is that every single woman around me is either a) pregnant herself, or b) a mother to a fairly new baby.

So, when we're all together, it's a huge grounding topic. It's what we have in common.

We discuss glucose tests, pre-natal yoga, breast pumps, organic baby foods, developmental delays, and nap times. We hash out date nights and baby sitters and borrowed infant swings. We ooh and aah over the cutest little outfits we find at the outlet stores, or Target, or Baby Gap.

It's who we are. Like it or not, we are, or we are quickly becoming, moms.

That being said, baby belly or not, we're also women. Plain, old, hum-drum women.

Who have lives. And jobs. And husbands. And responsibilities. And other members of our families that don't kick us from the uterus or spit up all over our favorite tank-tops.

We still have to do laundry. Cook dinner. Answer e-mails. Send condolences. Congratulate others. Balance the budget. Get gas. Spend time with our husbands.

But, in the wake of all this fertility, we don't seem to be doing much of that anymore. Or, at the very least, we're not talking about it.

Finally, yesterday, I looked at my friend, who is having her baby in September, and said, "I don't mean to sound insensitive, but I am sick to death of talking about being pregnant."

She leaped off my couch with so much excitement, you'd have thought I'd told her I'd baked a fresh pan of brownies just that afternoon.

"Oh, thank God it's not just me," she exclaimed. "I swear, if I hear one more person talk about the car-seat base they just put on their registry, I think I'm going to scream."

The girl was speaking my language.

And, thus, we spent a lovely hour talking about our husbands, our dogs, our friends - anything and everything but the babies growing in our bellies.

I probably should have felt guilty about it, but I didn't. Not even for a second.

Now, you see, it's not that I don't love this baby we've been given. Because I do. I mean, I totally do. And, 90-percent of the time, she's taking up all my thoughts and concerns and brain matter, if I'm being quite honest.

After all, I can't wait to meet her. I love to feel her move inside me. And I'm so thrilled we've only got about two months till she's in my arms.

Blah blah blah. You get the picture. I love my kid more than anything.

But I also like to cook. And scrapbook. And watch movies with my husband.

Sometimes, instead of knowing how big someone's uterus has gotten, I'd prefer to know what good books they've read lately.

Sometimes, instead of discussing what my midwives told me, I'd like to talk about the funny story my husband told me last night.

And sometimes, instead of hearing about how one friend's baby has a faster, stronger heartbeat than any the doctor's ever heard, I'd rather hear about a good restaurant they'd recommend.

There's only so many times I can rave about the breast-feeding books I read. Or the green Web site I ordered my diapers from. Or the quilt I sewed for Baby Girl's layette.

And, yet, those topics seem to come up. Over and over and over again.

Just once, in the next eight weeks, I want someone to ask me for my amazing chimichurri recipe. Or how I'd feel about starting up a Bible study. Or what we're planning on doing on our vacation next week.

I think about this baby 24-7 as it is. I'm shopping for her. Folding her little, tiny clothes. Reading book after book about how to care for her. Concocting my own recipes for lotions and wipes and teething remedies.

I am a woman on a mission. A mothering mission, if you will.

But sometimes, I also could use a few minutes to think and talk about something - anything - else.

***

Does this make me a bad mommy? Maybe.

Does it make me a poor friend? Probably.

But, honestly, I just can't help it.

I am 100-percent devoted to Baby Girl. But I am also a passionate reader and thinker and do-er.

Of other things. Of other, non-baby-related things.

And that, I think, makes me a good mommy. And, I hope, a good friend.

***

Anyone else ever have this problem? Am I the only one who is A-OK skipping yet another conversation where I have to explain that "Yes, we're excited for her to get here," but "No, we don't have everything quite ready yet," but, "Yes, she will be here in about two months," and "No, we don't know what to expect when she gets here," but "Yes, we know we'll be fine because she's our daughter, and we couldn't be happier about that."

Does it make me a bad friend if I don't want to hear yet another story about how "wonderful our baby's heartbeat sounded" at someone else's 24-week pre-natal appointment?

And does it make sense to anyone else that, sometimes, I just want to be me, Brittany, and not just Woman With Child?

Ugh. This makes me sound so ungrateful. So petty. So unable to think about anything and anyone but myself. But, honestly, it's how I feel.

I love that I have mommy friends to pal around with, but sometimes, I worry that we've forgotten about the women we were before we started this journey.

Can't we be both Mom and Woman? Do they both have to be mutually exclusive? What about being Daughter, Sister, Wife, Child of God, Athlete, Artist, Academic, Extrovert, Introvert? What about everything else we are, too? How do we balance it all?

And how do hold true to other important facets of who we are when everyone around us would rather compare what they're carrying in their womb to what we're carrying in ours?

***

Quick note: This post has nothing to do with any and all bloggers out there currently blogging about their pregnancies. I, for one, choose to read your blogs and, furthermore, enjoy reading them. Plus, Hello! I am guilty as charged when it comes to blogging about all things pregnant. I'm actually referring to my everyday life, where all I seem to come in contact with recently is people asking me the same darn questions about my baby, or, rather, other women waxing on and on and on about their own babies, drawing comparisons of minutiae between every woman carrying a child in her womb or in her arms to the baby in their womb or in their arms. While I understand the desire to reach out and relate to someone like you, I find it hard to swallow that all these women seem to care about is how their pregnancy compares to mine.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

See Trainer Run

You all give me too much credit. Really. You do.

While I so appreciated all your sweet comments Monday about how awesome it is that I run and exercise religiously while pregnant, I have to tell you, it's not always that pretty.

Honestly, there are days I'm waddling at work.

It's not graceful. It's not athletic. It's just life. Life as a pregnant trainer.

Case in point:
Take a wild guess which one I am.

Oh, yes, I'm the large and in charge pregnant trainer yelling at someone on the far left.

Lately, that's been my normal M.O. Large, puffy, and plugging away at a job that is getting increasingly uncomfortable.

Still, I do love working with women who have kids. And I love when we all rally together on a Saturday morning to do something like run a 5K.

So, in these illustrious photos from this past weekend, that is just what we're doing.

My clients and I before running the very 5K that may or may not have jump-started the false labor I experienced Saturday night.

Look how excited we all are. Seriously, it's almost like we have no idea what we're getting ourselves into.

And, honestly, that's totally the truth.

At least for me.

You see, my clients did great. Some of them ran faster than me. I expected that. Seeing as I'm, like, hugely pregnant and all.

But what I didn't expect was how badly it was going to go. For me, anyways.

More than 90-percent of the race was on rocky, muddy terrain. I was pushing a 3 year old, who insisted on carrying on an in-depth conversation with me for the entire 3.1 miles.

And my own child, safely tucked away in my womb, alternated between riding up into my lungs and cutting off my air flow, or pushing head-down and hard directly onto my bladder, causing me to seriously debate running off course and into the trees to relieve myself.

In fact, the pressure was so intense that I'm ashamed to say I may have wet myself a little bit when I sneezed mid-run and lost bladder control for about .4 seconds.

Luckily, my 3 year old companion didn't seem to mind. He just kept on talking.

"We're gonna go faster soon, right, Miss Brittany? We're running really fast up there, right? We're going over this rocky road faster now, right?"

Poor angel. He was trying to be encouraging.

But it was all I could do to gasp out, "Right, sweetheart. Right!" without either pee-ing myself completely or passing out from lack of oxygen flow.

Dear heavens, I've never had this baby in my womb be so uncooperative.

Needless to say, by the time I crossed the finish line, I was one hot mess:

Ewwwww.

What this picture doesn't show is the fact that I literally pushed my stroller off to the hands of a waiting client and kept right on running.

Straight into a church bathroom.

Dear heavens, I've never been so glad to see a 1970s-inspired toilet.

Thankfully, I returned a few minutes later, still walking and alive and ready to cheer on the rest of my racing clients.

But, alas, I was depressed a bit, too. After checking my times - "just for kicks," I told myself - I was hanging my head in shame.

I mean, I run every day. Baby Girl normally cooperates.

But something about racing brought out a whole other side of me. It was like my athletic mind was screaming at me, "Go, lady, go!" And my pregnant body was yelling right back, "Dear heavens, just stop and lie down in that brush over there for a bit! No one will miss you!"

Except, I couldn't stop. I had clients ahead of me. (Yep, some of my own clients beat me. I was slightly shame-faced.)

And I had even more clients behind me. (Who would totally have seen me stop running and would have probably thought I'd gone into early labor. No need to cause panic, I figured. Plus, um, did I mention the shame?)

Plus, I still had my sweet, albeit overly chatty, running partner yelling up at me from his swanky jogging stroller, "Faster! Faster! I can see the end up there!"

So, finish I did. But barely.

I finished slower than I've ever run a 5K before. I finished sweatier than I've ever run a 5K before. I finished uglier than I've ever run a 5K before.

Short of the immediate relief of "Oh, thank you God, it's over, and I didn't even have to resort to public urination!" I felt like that 3.1 miles had been a marathon.

I felt like my snail-like, pregnant jog had been a sprint.

And I felt like killing every single one of my clients who'd convinced me to do another 5K a mere three weeks from now.

I better go buy a pack of Depends. I think I'm going to need them.

***

I am seriously considering just walking the next 5K in the beginning of May, especially considering I'll be 34 weeks pregnant. (I know. I can't believe I even just admitted that.)

Still, I'm actually thinking it over. I mean, I'm super-pregnant. No one would blame me. (Except my own critical inner ego.)

Plus, when working with clients who have children, there's always a need for somebody to do this:
For the record, I'm feeding a client's baby before the race last week, lest you think I enjoy fueling up before a big race with a nice jar of pureed carrots.

Seems a little lower-key, doesn't it? May not require as many adult diapers, perhaps?

It may not be the high road, but it sure does look like the easy one.

And, let me tell you, the easy road is starting to sound better and better.

***

Happy Workout Wednesday, everyone!

Blessed and Then a Breakdown

I had fair warning that this weekend was going to be hectic.

My calendar had been full for months.

I knew what I was getting myself into.

But, being Classic Me, I wasn't really that phased.

After all, I'm a pretty high-energy person. I can get a lot done on any given day. And I'm kind of relentless when it comes to doing and joining and making things happen.

My husband calls me an "execute-r" for a reason.

Still, after a busy Friday, spent entirely on my feet, I went to bed tired.

Tired but excited.

I was going to spend all of Saturday with some of my favorite people doing some of my favorite things: exercising and celebrating my baby girl.

So, when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, I was feeling chipper.

When I corralled up a bunch of my clients, I was feeling downright plucky.

And when I lined up with them at the race line for a local 5K we were all planning on running, I was, dare I say, giddy.

And then the race gun went off.

I won't go into too many details here. But let's just say I vastly underestimated how this race was going to go.

Granted, I did the entire thing. At 31 weeks pregnant. Pushing a 3 year old (one of my client's kids.) In a very uncooperative jogging stroller. On a 3.1-mile route that was made up almost entirely of rocky terrain and bumpy, uneven sand.

But the pictures of me crossing the finish line, in which I'm insanely smiling, also reveal the ugly truth: Running a 5K on a hot, humid Southern day when you're super pregnant and pushing a heavy load? Not the most athletic and graceful of moments a woman can experience.

Still, I did it. So did all my clients. We had a great time.

Except, I couldn't stay around to celebrate. I literally crossed the finish line and kept running to my car.

Because, before the race that morning, my baby shower had taken an unexpected turn.

My good friend hosting the shower here is newly pregnant herself. And sick.

Let's all take a moment of silence to ponder that.

Yeah, exactly. I have been there (so have many of you) and any woman in that position is lucky if she can sit upright long enough to focus her eyeballs without wanting to gouge them out.

The first-trimester is no joke.

Anyways, when said sick, pregnant friend called me at 7:30 Saturday morning to tell me that not only was she not up to snuff but her 1 year old was sick, too, well, we were up a creak without a paddle when it came the baby shower she was throwing for me and another pregnant friend of ours.

There was no way we could have it at her house. It wouldn't be fair to her, her son, or our (un-infected) party guests.

Still, we had 25 people expecting a party in little more than six hours and nowhere (uncontaminated) to host it.

So, we did the next most logical thing, seeing as I only live six houses down from my poor, dear sick friend.

I told her we'd just move it to my house. I'd go run my 5K, sprint home, and hope and pray I could clean my house fast enough to make it shower-presentable.

Blessedly, another friend of mine, sensing my panic, agreed to help and actually run the shower games, etc. (Part of my anxiety stemmed from the fact that now, I appeared to be hosting my own baby shower. And call me sensitive, but I was afraid of looking tacky.)

Anyways, with all hands on deck - the other pregnant friend who was also being honored at the shower jumped right in to help, too - I figured we'd just make it.

Enter me, in Whirlwind Mode.

So, yes, I ran the 5K, sprinted home, and kept running around my house, getting it ready. My husband went into work late to help me clean, but he did eventually have to leave, and I then managed to hoist a leaf into my dining room table, dig through my china, and climb on my furniture to hang streamers and decor, all while the few girls who rallied to help me cooked in my kitchen, text-ed me frantically about punch and appetizers, and tied balloons to my mailbox.

Finally, I managed to throw on a sundress, do my hair, and add some make-up about 15 seconds before the first guests arrived.

And then it was all baby games - the best being Baby Pictionary, in which one of my favorite clients screamed out, "VAGINAL BIRTH!" as her guessing option for the phrase "cut the cord," sending us all into hysterics - snacks and drinks, and the gift-opening tradition, in which I had to stop myself from crying about 18 different times because, seriously, I am so blessed to have met these women, all of whom I've known less than a year, but all of whom have embraced me because that's what we, as military spouses and mothers, do to survive and thrive.

The shower went smashing-ly. The last guests left my house at 7:45 - more than three hours after the party's original end time.

And, then, things got a little scary.

You see, about two hours earlier, I'd started to notice some nagging aches in my abdomen.

Thinking I was probably dehydrated, I downed a couple glasses of water. But I didn't stop moving because there were people in my home and a mess on every surface. If I wasn't socializing, I was cleaning.

Problem was, I noticed the aching getting worse. The pains were getting more severe. I actually kept having to stop and catch my breath from the cramps.

So, when the last guests left, I ignored my dirty kitchen and the piles of leftovers left on the buffet, and I sat down.

At this point, I was experiencing really painful cramps in my belly. And I hadn't felt Baby Girl move in hours.

I laid down promptly and started to poke my belly. She kicked right back, thank God.

But my pain got worse.

And then I noticed myself breathing rhythmically and deeply, just like we were taught to do in my birthing class.

And then, it hit me.

I think I'm feeling contractions.

I tried sitting up to get more water. And the intensity in my abdomen only got worse.

I ran to my purse to grab my cell phone, just in case. I wasn't yet convinced that I should be truly alarmed, but I wanted to have it on me, on the off chance I humored my weaker side and decided to call the midwives.

What alarmed me was that I'd had Braxton-Hicks in the past, and while slightly uncomfortable, they weren't nearly as intense as these. The pain was alarming, though not unbearable.

Still, I kept trying not to think about the fact that Braxton-Hicks aren't supposed to be painful. These were definitely not the same old Braxton-Hicks I'd been feeling.

So I lay there.

And lay there.

And lay there.

It took about 90 minutes for the pain to lessen, during which I just breathed and talked to my husband, feeling Baby Girl move around as if nothing was wrong.

It took another 30 minutes after that for the pain to go away.

More than two hours later, my face white but my "contractions" lessened, we finally breathed our first sigh of relief.

When I could finally manage it, I looked up what I'd experienced.

Apparently, I had been having contractions. Contractions brought on from exhaustion and fatigue and simply over-doing it.

It made sense, considering I'd been on my feet, adrenaline pumping, for about 16 hours straight.

Luckily, because I hadn't lost any fluids, wasn't experiencing any swelling, and, most importantly, because I could feel Baby Girl moving away, I seemed to be out of the woods. I wasn't really in any danger.

Thank God.

It was, quite honestly, the only time in this pregnancy I worried that I'd done something wrong. That maybe, just maybe, I'd hurt the baby.

Thank heavens, it seems Baby Girl is even tougher than me.

I spent the rest of the evening hobbling around, sorting through baby clothes and helping my poor husband, who blessedly cleaned up the majority of the shower mess so I could stay off my feet.

Lesson learned? I do have limits.

My body can do a lot. But it can't be pushed to the points it used to reach before. At least not right now. Not while it's growing a baby.

Combining a strenuous race with a social event in my honor that had to be unexpectedly moved to my unprepared home was too much for Pregnant Me, it seemed.

I hated to admit that. After all, I like being the "execute-r." I like being able to do it all.

Except, sometimes, I can't.

And it only took me 31 weeks into my pregnancy to find my limit.

***

Due to the fact that I was so caught up in prepping my house for the shower, I didn't take a single picture of the event. Not a one.

If there's one thing I would change about my weekend, it would be that. Because, despite my test-brush with contractions, the day had been pretty heart-warming and fabulous. I hate that I didn't capture that.

However, we do have pictures of me running that darned 5K. Because, honestly, who doesn't want to see a huge pregnant woman, sweating her face off, attempting to cross the finish line in a reasonable amount of time?

Dear me.

Anyways, I'll try and share those photos and more race adventures this week.

Until then, I'm learning to rest and realize that, at least for the next nine weeks, I can't do it all.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!