Yes. My blogging has been minimal. But so has my energy level.
In spite of pounding iron supplements like they're candy, I have not been able to restore my level of perkiness back to pre-pregnancy ideals, which, I guess, was a little too optimistic of me to hope for in the first place. Having two toddlers who need to be entertained indoors until the weather warms up a bit has been physically draining on me, and no amount of alfalfa tablets will rectify that truth.
In spite of all of the fatigue, I had still managed to maintain my routine of 200 minutes per week on the elliptical, along with some light weight lifting. I was pleased with my fitness, and daydreamed of continuing this routine for the remainder of my pregnancy (all 9ish weeks of it), hoping I'd be in a really great place for getting back into running. My previous pregnancies had left me abandoning an exercise routine a month or so before I delivered, and I was determined for that to not be the case this time.
Then, last week happened. Emily (my amazing midwife) has her clients go to the doctor once during third trimester in case of an emergency transfer down the road-- the paperwork is in, they have a chart for me, and the transition would be less difficult that way. When I went into the exam room, with my husband and two chitluns accompanying, the nurse did the usual-- blood pressure, medical history, and then asked me to step on the digital scale.
No big deal, right?
I didn't think so, even though just a few weeks prior I'd told Emily, who had asked if I could go weigh myself, that I'd rather not. Emily, being amazing and wonderful, said that was fine. I explained that I had a history of disordered eating, and getting on a scale when I'm pregnant is really triggering for me.
So I stepped on the digital scale, and looked down to report the number to the nurse. Happy happy joy joy, my belly prevented me from seeing the number before the nurse did, and she said, "Okay, hop off." She didn't say the number out loud, and I didn't ask.
Unfortunately, my belly did not obscure my view of my husband, who was sitting right next to the scale, and I saw him see the number.
Something inside of me died.
Perhaps it's the hormones, or just being in a vulnerable place because of what pregnancy does to my body image (which isn't super great to start off with, anyway). My husband has done nothing to suggest I am anything less than beautiful to him. He is supportive, loving, and very sensitive to my body image issues. In spite of recognizing all of that, however, seeing him see the number made a part of me feel like he now had ammunition to stop loving me.
That was a hard thing to sit with for a few days.
Physically, I continued doing the right things. Eating well, taking my vitamins, and I didn't start exercising excessively. What I did recognize, though, was that my body was struggling a little with being this pregnant. My back hurt. My hips felt achy. I could fall asleep at any point of any day because of the exhaustion that was overwhelming me. Any other person experiencing these things, I would say, "Cut back on working out! Your body is working hard enough to grow a baby." But I couldn't give myself that kind of allowance. To stop exercising was to give in to what that number said, to accept it, and to let it erase any value I might have. So while externally, nothing changed about my behavior, emotionally, I went to a bad place.
Wednesday, we went to have a sonogram done. It was a free scan, one done by someone who had just graduated from a sonography program using volunteers to keep up her skills. I was eager to find out if I could go buy a bunch of too-enticing cute outfits on the girl side of Baby Gap, or if I could start calling the babe by the boy name we had picked out. As she went through the scan, we got to see the baby's face, and I wanted nothing more than to reach in and give this little child a hug. By the end of the scan, we discovered we are amazing at making little boys! My heart swelled, and I couldn't stop grinning.
So last night, while still on a high from seeing my tiny babe, I looked at the elliptical. I thought about how many days it had been since I exercised, and the tape of self-criticism started playing its loop in my head. The lumps and bulges I saw in the mirror that appeared from holding on to more fat to sustain a pregnancy screamed my inadequacy, my lack of self control, my diminished value. As I looked at the elliptical and contemplated donning my workout attire, though, I felt a soft little kick. And I realized, I'm tired. My body is exhausted. I played today with my children, and my body needs a break. My baby deserves a well rested body to grow and be strong in. And that is more important than whatever emotional benefits I would temporarily get from exercising in this moment.
So I didn't. I didn't exercise. And I didn't tell myself I was terrible for it.
And laying on the couch, I felt stronger than I've felt in a long time.
