Dear, Baby. Strap on your crash helmet. We’re working out.

Making a baby is hard.

Let me rephrase that.

Making a baby is fun.  Growing a baby is hard.

I’m tired.

Tired of not knowing what to eat…or worse yet, knowing that all I want is Chinese food or French fries and the idea of chicken and broccoli makes me dry wretch.

Tired of worshipping the porcelain god multiple times a day for weeks on end.  (For the record, this is beginning to ebb.  I usually get about 2 days of reprieve followed by 1-2 days when the fetus’ “F U, mom” schedule kicks in.)

And tired of not being able to exercise for 25 minutes without feeling like I’m dying a slow and painful death.

Since about week 7 (I’m at 18 now), I have only been working out sporadically.  The second I’ve felt the slightest bit better, I’ve frantically tied up my shoes and got my ass onto the treadmill, outside for a quick 5K (“quick” haha), or into the squat rack for 30 minutes or so of push-ups and dying and pull-ups and dying and squats and, well, dying.  I’ve also managed to get out for a Zumba class – something I have missed desperately for years since I left Kamloops – that lasted an entire hour and felt like I was running a marathon.

For someone who is used to working out twice a day, this “do-it-when-you-can-and-for-however-long-you-can” programming has certainly taken time to get used to, but I have learned a lot about being kind and patient with myself.  My rest periods during workouts is longer.  I lift about 25% left with certain exercises (much of this is due to the fact that I haven’t lifted consistently in the last 2 months, but I actually do find it somewhat more difficult).  I don’t run nearly as hard or fast.  I often tell people to celebrate the small achievements, which has been hard advice to follow myself.  Short workouts, runs, and “marathon” Zumba classes (actually only an hour!) have become my small successes.

This has been rather disheartening at times, but one thing that keeps me going – and laughing on the inside – despite whatever disappointment or frustration is provided by my ridiculous husband.  Of course.

Very early on in the pregnancy, I was dancing around the kitchen and M. told me that he envisioned our Mr. Peanut-looking spawn with crash helmet on bouncing off the walls of my uterus, yelling, “Ow!  Ow!”  Now every time I run, jump, burpee, or dance, all I can picture is our fetus flailing around.

 

BabyWithCrashHelmet

At 12 weeks, helmet on and ready for the next workout.

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~ by yomisskang on January 16, 2018.

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