Fitness Hiatus

When I was in junior high, I was introduced to my first love.  And no, it was not the dreamy baseball player/singer-songwriter I lusted after from afar all through high school. 

It was exercise-induced adrenaline.  

I had recently begun to identify myself as something of an athlete.  Granted, it didn't take much to be one of the high-scorers on my junior high basketball team when we won only a handful of games.  Turned out, our starting lineup was better at fouling out of the game than hitting free-throws.  But still, I found a real thrill behind the rush of blood pumping my skinny 12-year-old legs up and down the court.

By the time I was shopping around for universities, a decent student rec center was situated right near the top of my 'must-have' list.  (And no, I was never even a close contender to be awarded an athletic scholarship). 

My decision to go to graduate school to become a Physical Therapist was not at all unrelated to my status as a full-on adrenaline-junkie, which I fully realized sometime during my undergraduate career.  

It was grad school where I found myself crammed in a windowless classroom, action-packed with kindred spirits and I decided to actually run that first marathon.  It was there also that I found one of my callings as an enthusiastic group fitness participant (boot camp!!) and later, instructor.

Stumbling out of bed in the wee hours of the morning to wrestle my way into a sports bra and spike my heart-rate before breakfast was no longer something I did, it was now a real part of something I *was*.

So, when I discovered I was pregnant one early fall morning, the news certainly didn't stand in the way of my scheduled run.  

I read obsessively about fitness and pregnancy.  The latest literature (and my OB) fully supported my innate desire to keep moving.  My healthy heart would mean baby would have a healthy heart, being fit meant a healthier delivery and less chance of complications like gestational diabetes and hypertension.  I was lucky to have very minimal musculoskeletal discomfort and except for cutting back on my running pace and weights, it was business as usual.  

Then my water broke and I delivered my son nine weeks early.  

My first question to the doctors was: did I do this?  Had I been *over* confident in my endeavors?  More than one doctor assured me that there was no way of knowing what had caused my tiny 3 lb baby to arrive when he did.  Maybe an undetected infection, but who knows. 

The reason for my 'premature rupture' was so unclear and considered to be so rare that I wasn't even considered 'high risk' as I entered my second pregnancy a mere eight months later (apparently I totally forgot how to prevent these things).

Still, just to be on the safe side, my doctor said, we would spend a little extra time checking my cervical length (which went unchecked during my last pregnancy).

And so with the blessing of the medical community, I cautiously continued my usual routine. 

Then, at 23 weeks (just past the halfway point and one week shy of having a 'viable birth') I got the news: my cervix was officially thinning

...and yes, that could have been the cause of my early delivery.

...and yes, I should now probably cut out the high-impact, high-intensity activities from my routine.

I hate to be melodramatic, but pregnancy hormones are powerful little bitches.  You see, the night after I got the news, I literally cried myself to sleep.  I woke up the next day with an emotional hangover and my body felt heavy like someone I loved had died (melodramatic enough for you?)

It's been just under two weeks since my 'modified bedrest' began and I'm coming to terms with the situation.  My work as a Physical Therapist is far from sedentary, but because I have been instructed to 'take it easy' I am learning to ask for help -- a request that is *way* outside my comfort zone.  

As I lay awake in my bed now, listening to the sounds of the springtime early morning, I am trying to be at peace with the situation.

Hitting the pause button on my workouts and not being super-woman at work are just the first of many sacrifices I will make for this little guy. 

I cannot pull on my running shoes, but I can lie here and feel my baby squirm around inside me, knowing that at least I am doing all I can to keep him safe. 

Meanwhile, the gym won't go anywhere, and I am still me.  

NOTE: PLEASE don't let post dissuade you from having an active pregnancy.  If you don't have a history of pre-term delivery or second trimester loss, it's unlikely you have cervical insufficiency. Still, many practices have recently started screening all women for cervical length at 20 weeks, and I would recommend discussing it with your OB during early visits.

A Scary Love and a Public Apology

About a year ago, just after our little guy came careening into or lives, a friend of mine smiled at me and said, 'Now you know how much your parents love you.'

I was truly startled for a minute.

Then I thought: holy crap (well, I probably used a more vulgar word, but I don't want to offend my mother in an effort to honor her).  I thought that for two reasons:

A) A parent's love is a scary kind of love.  Loving someone as much as a parent loves their child leaves you feeling totally defenseless and exposed.  My parents weren't either of those things; certainly not my mother.  She was fearless.

She raised three kids while earning a PhD, working, and keeping the house from collapsing around us.  And we were *not* always perfect (I mean, *I* was, but my brothers...they could be real real trouble).  Plus, she made it look effortless. I never once saw her lose her cool.

At the time, I hadn't been a mom for more than a few weeks and I didn't know when I was going to find the time to wash my hair next, let alone conquer the world like *my* mother -- Especially saddled with the paralyzing fear that motherhood had shaken out of me.  My mom had spent 32 years feeling *that* sort of love for us?

B) OK, I lied.  I was maybe not a perfect angel.  In fact, I was a little sh*t sometimes.  Sorry mom, for the language and the fact that I was a sh*t.

I remember when I was in college and complaining to my mother about the 15-year-olds that I had to 'manage' at the pool where I worked.  I boldly declared that all 15-year-olds were worthless and terrible and *I* had never been 'that sort of 15.'  My mom smiled at me and replied, 'let me just put it this way, when you were 15, I called *my* mother and apologized for the year *I* was 15.'

Then suddenly, I remembered all the brooding and unexplainable tears and the incessant pouting (I was a total PRO at pouting) and stomping and door slamming and downright rude behavior I had displayed in a hormone-driven teenage whirlwind.

And the worst part is, I don't think I apologized.  I think I maintained that I hadn't been so bad, and if she met these kids, she would know what I meant.

I'll do it now, publicly and on the record:

Sorry Mom and Dad.  Sorry for being a sh*t (and for being the kind of woman who needs to use foul language to get her point across).  Sorry for treating you guys like dirt when you were busy loving me unconditionally, the way that only a mom (or a dad) could love a 15-year-old.

And Happy Mother's Day to a woman who deserves only the highest of recognition for turning her three (sometimes terrible) children into decent, honest, upstanding, tax-paying, moderately (or better than that, in the case of my brothers) successful adults.

I love you!

Sugar and spice and everything nice...

I am standing in a circle with my parents, inlaws, and closest friends.  I have a pink handkerchief tied onto my ponytail and I am exhaling deeply into a pink balloon.  As the balloon fills with my first enthusiastic breath, it quickly reveals that it has been previously assaulted by pinpricks and it becomes immediately apparent that the balloon will not hold air.  

The disappointment and surprise sort of bubble up in the deepest part of my gut, but I do *not* allow those emotions to register on my face.  

To my left, my husband is blowing ferociously into a blue balloon, which is happily accepting his efforts and obediently staying inflated.  

The verdict was in.  We were having a boy.  For the second time.

 

You see, I had been *certain* the growing child in my belly was a girl.  I can't say why, exactly -- or when that certainty sprang into existence -- but it was there.  In recent weeks, I had found myself gazing at mothers with little girls and standing a bit too long in front of infant-sized dresses in the baby section at Target.

Regardless of what my gut is feeling, I slap a giant smile on my face and celebrate with hugs and high fives like my uterus has just won the world series of pregnancies. 

Looking back at that moment, I think It's very possible that the main source of my disappointment was my very extreme and innate competitive spirit. Also, it could have had something to do with a bruised ego.  Losing just doesn't sit well with me, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose at a guessing game I both created and insisted upon. Now, it looks like I will also spend the next 18 years losing the age-old toilet seat battle, not to mention any pissing contests that might arise. 

The really funny thing is that the thought of raising a girl really sort of terrifies me.  For starters, I hate pink. I always have. You see, I was not only the first born (and only) daughter to my parents, I was also the first granddaughter on both sides, following at the heels of five boy cousins on my dad's side.  From the day I was born, I was *inundated* with pink, and bows, and dresses, and everything deemed domestic and female.  

So, from an early age, I did the most natural thing and I rebelled.  I was once overheard telling a friend just before Christmas that I was pretty sure Santa would award my good behavior that year with 'another dumb kitchen set'.  Even as a young adult and all us 'kids' were living away from home, I raised a stink the year both my brothers received tool sets and I did not.  What? I was never going to need an Allen wrench because I had a vagina??   Incidentally, I got an identical tool set for my birthday that year and have even used it once or twice since then.

While my brothers were winning chess matches and scholastic bowls and quietly learning to program computers (before it was even fashionable), I was sweating through t-shirts on the volleyball and basketball courts.  I threw tantrums over wearing dresses my mother had hand-made for me and blinked back tears every morning when she combed out the mess of tangles my long hair had acquired from climbing trees, riding bikes, and diving into deep ends of pools.   

When I graduated college, my mother (perhaps in one last effort to domesticate me) bought me a sewing machine.  Instead of telling her how insulted I felt, I graciously packed it up and lugged it around the country with me throughout graduate school and clinical rotations.  Years later, I had the occasion to do some light sewing and after nearly an hour trying to thread the damn thing, I gave up and stapled my project together.

My wedding dress has a ring of dirt at the hemline and sweat stains under the armpits; what I consider to be a lovely memento of a blissed-out bride fearlessly traipsing through tall grass for photos and dancing like a crazy person all night.  

To this day, no one had ever accused me of being either dainty or feminine.  I have man-sized arms, hands, and feet.  I wear my husband's sweat pants to the grocery store.  It's been so long since I've worn makeup, I have actually *lost* my tiny makeup bag. 

So, you can see I wouldn't be much of a mom to a little girl.  Maybe my lady parts had figured that out long before I did.  

My boys will be 17 months apart.  God willing, they will be happy and healthy like I was.  And I'm sure I will find some manner in which to unintentionally insult them with Christmas and graduation presents and they will find ways to boldly rebel against my expectations for them.

Poor pickle: Never stood much of a chance.

They say the hardest thing a band has to do is come up with a name.  Here's the thing, I don't have a musical bone in my body...but I do come up with kick-ass band names on a pretty regular basis.  

Take yesterday, for example.  I was innocently clearing a space in the refrigerator and found myself dumping a lone pickle down the garbage disposal.

Lightbulb.

Sacrificial pickle.

Bam, nailed it.  

I was basically left with two choices: 

1) finally start writing that blog I'm always threatening to write.

OR

2)  learn to play the damn guitar.

Like I said, I completely lack musical talent.  

So here we are.