Stabby.

The elliptical and a pretty rockin' playlist have been my daily dose of therapy lately. Kansas is many things, and one of those things is certainly predictable. Just when the weather feels lovely, pleasant, ideal-- you can guarantee that it will only last a few days before the next extreme comes out to play. Spring? Autumn? Around here, those seasons are limited to a week between freakishly freezing cold to unbearably sticky hot. So when I start to get back into running, it's too hot to go later than 6 a.m. And with a newborn who hasn't quite figured out the sleeping-at-nighttime thing, 6 a.m. and I aren't exactly speaking.

And being just shy of four weeks post partum, my hips could use a little more transitioning.

So the elliptical is my friend.

Its placement in our home was determined based on my initial desire to watch Netflix while exercising. However, my brain has been programmed to use my sweat time as processing time, and I have yet to find a movie that can keep up with my thoughts. Instead, I blast some power music-- songs that go with how I'm feeling, and sweat out the icky stuff while I rock out.

While I was doing this last night, though, the icky stuff didn't leave. Instead, a thought traversed across my brain, and stopped right in the middle. It wouldn't budge, it wouldn't leave, and it made me angry. You see, for the past couple years, I've been dealing with a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that I won't go into detail about, but that stuff has resulted in a lot of angry miles run, a lot of tearful journaling, and far too many chocolate chips consumed (to the extent that my almost-three-year-old refers to chocolate chips as "mommy medicine"). One of the things that I've been dealing with that relates to the sticky thought, though, was that someone close to me touched my physically, repeatedly, in a way that made me very uncomfortable (Harassment? Assault? It's all too complicated to even label-- "inappropriate" is what I've landed on). A people pleaser at heart, I didn't speak up. In all the training and experiencing I have advocating for other people, helping them to find their voice, I was stifling mine and experiencing intense misery as a result. It got to where I was having a physically-ill response whenever I was around this person, and escalated to the point when I couldn't be quiet anymore. Finding my voice six months ago, I finally spoke up, and put a stop to what was happening. Unfortunately, it also resulted in a lot of people whom I thought cared about me calling me a liar.

Stress. Frustration. Recurrent trauma.

Anyway. I was processing a lot of what was going on while sweating stuff out, and something popped up-- Justice. What would justice look like? As I turned that over and over in my mind, my strides per minute increased, my feet stomped angrily, and my random air guitars became more intense. Because as I was mulling over this idea, I realized that there is no such thing in this situation-- no matter what happens, he will still have made me feel dirty, cheap, worthless, objectified, and nothing will undo that.

It made my heart ache. Not only for my pain, but also in thinking about anyone who had been raped, sexually assaulted, sexually harassed-- no matter what happened (and usually, nothing does in terms of consequences for the perpetrator's actions), it won't undo the icky feelings. Time, therapy, and processing can bring healing-- but nothing will rewind time and make that icky in that space of history go away.

My therapist is helping me to find my voice. For too long, I've sat with the idea that I can't tell someone they don't have the right to touch me if I don't want them to. I have to be polite, kind, respectful-- and that means letting other people do to me whatever they want. So I'm taking these feelings-- these stabby, angry, frustrated, unvalidated feelings-- and fueling the fire behind my voice.

And that voice is feeling pretty awesome lip syncing to Glee on the elliptical.

REWARD: Missing Legs

After my first was born, I waited a week before I went running again. A month of bed rest about did me in, and I was eager to get back out on the pavement.

My first run was 20 minutes, and I went about a mile and a half (June in the Midwest is unforgiving with the heat).

With my second, my husband let slip to the midwife what I had done after the previous pregnancy, and she told me under NO uncertain terms am I to run prior to three weeks after the birth (something about hormones in the body or whatever). So I waited three weeks.

My second was a December baby, and waiting didn't seem that difficult. I thought it would be easy to follow the same guidelines this time around.

Nope.

Having a May baby means I mentally/emotionally/spiritually/anythingly cannot wait three weeks.

Thirteen days out? I'll just do yoga. That's no big deal, right? And it'll be good for working out the kinks that settled in during pregnancy and delivery. It's totally fine that it's P90X2 yoga, right?

Two weeks out. Yoga was nice, but I think I can do more. What P90X2 workout falls on Thursdays?

Fifteen days out. Since I did Yoga on Wednesday instead of Friday, I'll switch the days, but that would make today a rest day...

"I think I'm going to go running."

My husband: "Will you be less grumpy if you do?"

Bless him.

It was overcast. The air was a little thick from the previous night's rain, with a hint of a cool breeze. It was perfect and beautiful. My ipod was loaded with new songs, and I was dance-running on the rural roads near my house. The out and back was four miles, and I promised my husband I'd turn around when my body said I needed to quit. My brain was too elated with the run that I simply. Could. Not. Stop.

My pelvis and my brain were at odds with one another.

When I hit the stop sign that indicated I needed to turn around, my hip flexors seemed tight enough to be engraved. The two miles back home seemed long and difficult-- a far cry from the marathon training I was in the midst of when I got my positive pregnancy test.

I looked down at my ipod. Flipped it to a new song.

I dance-ran the whole way home.

It's good to be (on my way) back.

My charm.

"Any contractions?" my husband asked. It was 10:00 a.m. on Thursday, May 16th, and I sighed, exasperated into the phone.

"Not a thing. This babe is never coming out." My due date was only just the day before, but having spent an entire day with early labor the previous Monday that resulted in me progressing to a 7, I was convinced that the baby would come ANY SECOND. The midwife assured me that because it was my third, and I was already progressed so far, my water could break any minute, and the baby would be coming immediately after. Tuesday, I'd called into work, certain I'd have a baby that day. A couple bouts of intense contractions later, resulting in our midwife coming Tuesday evening and the wee hours of Wednesday morning, resulted in me still being pregnant.

I was going to be pregnant forever.

I had spent Wednesday evening very tearful, frustrated with my body. I couldn't run. I couldn't play with my kids. I couldn't help around the house. I was exhausted, uncomfortable, and so close to having the baby-- and yet so far. My emotional health was depleted. There wasn't much left for me to hang onto.

I hung up with the husband and returned to my work. Orientation for the law students was the next week, and I needed to complete the powerpoint presentation I was convinced I'd still be pregnant for. Distracted by my enormousness, I texted a friend who was coming back into town that day from a two week trip-- one she'd left with the remark, "Don't have that baby until I get back!"

Me: You bewitched my uterus. Apparently this baby is waiting for you to return.
Her: That baby just already loves me!
Me: If I'm still pregnant tomorrow, will you go get a pedicure with me?
Her: Absolutely! And tell your uterus it has my permission to have that baby!

My brain was fried. No amount of focus could be squeezed from its cerebral folds. I looked around my office, saw the recently drained Nalgene bottle, and decided then was as good as time as any to go to the bathroom. I glanced at the clock-- 11:00 a.m.-- and waddled to the bathroom, contemplating what I was going to do with an hour left of work.

Sparing you all the details of my urination, I started to stand after doing my business, only to feel a *gush*. My heart skipped a beat-- was that my water? I looked down into the toilet-- the water was cloudy, not clear. When I stood up all the way, water was trickling down my leg.

My midwife's words were echoing through my head-- "Third baby." "Water breaks, he'll come right out!" "Scared I won't get to your house in time..."

HOLY CRAP. I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY IN THE LAW SCHOOL BATHROOM.

Did I have time to wash my hands first? (Answer: Yes. Yes, and I did.)

I scurried back to my office (as much as I could, with his head now completely engaged and hurting me. A lot.), grabbed my bag, and locked up to head out. I called the husband, let him know what happened, and asked him to call the midwife. As I headed home, I called my boss to let her know that I'd left early, I wouldn't be in the next day, and that I had managed to not ruin my office chair (a grave concern for her). In the two times my water has broken outside of a hospital setting, I'd managed to have it break in the shower (my second babe), and now over a toilet. My amniotic sacs get the award for most-convenient-ruptures.

When I pulled into the driveway at home, I saw that the midwife had beaten me there. The husband was refilling the birthing tub (I glared at it-- it had better be the last time it was getting filled!), and the midwife was setting up my antibiotics. The husband then made us all some lunch, which I was able to consume without throwing up. This both delighted me and concerned me-- was this another false start? My water breaking meant that if my body didn't go into labor on its own, the clock was ticking, and I might have to go to the hospital. I'd had only a couple contractions, and nothing that indicated this was the real deal. What if my body doesn't--

OW.

Okay. Never mind. We're in business.

I'd been practicing Hypnobabies during my pregnancy, planning to use it while I was in labor. But these contractions didn't feel that bad. My first babe was induced with pitocin, and those contractions HURT. I was told that after pitocin contractions, natural labor felt like a walk in the park. Then I had my second babe, who was tangled up in his cord and caused me intense back labor for 18 hours. I wanted the pitocin contractions back. However, this third time around, these felt okay. Uncomfortable, increasingly hurty with each one, but not impossible. My midwife was absolutely amazing, and I adored her, and I preferred chatting with her over listening to Hypnobabies. Besides, plenty of time for that when transition came around, eh?

We hung out for a few hours. The husband put the kids down for a nap, and I labored in the tub. The midwife said she'd be calling her assistant soon (who had to trek from Topeka), which made me feel hopeful that things were moving along. Then, it happened-- transition.

"I'm going to put on my headphones now."

I finger dropped. I went to my safe place. I did all of the imagery and muscle relaxation I could muster. Then, the next contraction hit.

When it was over, I threw my iPod.

"Hypnobabies is stupid!"

The husband started gently stroking my hair. The midwife started rubbing an essential oil on my back that was HEAVENLY. As the babe moved down past my tail bone, my back muscles clenched up, and I felt completely defeated. This was supposed to be my easy labor, with no back labor! But when she rubbed the oil on me (and I'm definitely not on any essential oil bandwagon), my muscles relaxed enough for the pain to be tolerable.

"Uhh, you're not allowed to stop doing that. Ever."

As I continued to labor, the midwife told me her assistant, Kelly, would be coming soon, so not to be alarmed when she walked through my front door. Transition was on in full force, and I have no idea how my kids slept through my vocalization (the polite term for "yelling") in our tiny house, but they did. Just before 3:00, Kelly walked in, and in the middle of a contraction, I looked up, stopped yelling, and said, "Hi, Kelly!"-- then returned to yelling. Mama raised me right.

The contractions were getting to be pretty painful-- I think at one point I said I didn't want to do it anymore, but I'm happy to say that this time, I didn't ask for drugs. I evolved from the natural laborer who always begs for drugs, to the natural laborer who simply asks for a nap in the middle of transition. I'm pretty proud of that.

Then a contraction hit where my body could not find a tolerable position. It felt like a white, hot pain across my lower abdomen.

"Where does it hurt?" my midwife asked. When I showed her, she said, "Okay! I think you need to go to the bathroom."

If I weren't attempting to curl into the fetal position in the tub without drowning myself, I would have given her a very dirty look. We had talked earlier about how she tells women she thinks they need to go to the bathroom to manipulate them into changing positions when they aren't willing to.

"I'm not changing positions. I'm not moving."

"No, I think you need to empty your bladder!" she said, all too chipperly.

"FINE." I was less polite at this point. I was also pretty sure that having experienced contractions for several minutes now where I felt like pushing was my only way to get through them, my bladder was empty (and that water was probably gross).

I made it to the toilet before the next contraction hit. The husband sat in front of me.

"I don't want to do this again. This really hurts." The husband, who had been making jokes and checking Strava earlier in labor, just nodded. Good job, sir.

The next contraction, I knew he was coming. Feeling a bit of panic, though, I remembered when I was pushing on the toilet with my second babe, and the midwife (a different midwife) told me I had to move to the bed-- I couldn't have the baby on the toilet. Worried they'd make me move again, I resolved not to tell anyone there was a human being coming out of my vagina at that moment. They'd have to figure it out.

At this point, I went to some other place in my brain, because I don't really remember much of what happened. The husband had to tell me later. Apparently, I reached down, and the midwife said, "Can you feel him?" I apparently confirmed, and she said, "Just push him into your hand." The midwife grabbed one arm, Kelly the other, and they lifted me up. After the next contraction, his head was out. With the next, his body. The husband caught him.

My third, my charm, came wiggling out in the world just over the toilet-- which was fitting, since that was how labor started. He weighed 8 lbs, 6 oz, and was covered in vernix. When the vernix soaked into his skin, we could see that he was also born with a head full of hair.

I moved to the couch, snuggling his happy little body. After I was situated and cleaned up, both of my other boys woke up to meet their new baby brother. It worked out perfectly-- a four hour labor, and the other chitluns slept through half of it-- the hard half.

The midwife checked to see how I did with delivery, and announced that I had two tiny paper cut tears that didn't even need stitches. My heart smiled-- Three weeks until I could run again!

This all happened sixteen days ago-- May 16th-- and I still cannot get enough snuggles with this boy. Love. Him.

We rock at making little boys.

Boston.

Our first child is named after a famous cyclist. Most people don't know that, and really, I wouldn't have known that his name is shared with a famous cyclist if it weren't for my cycling obsessed hubby. But since he started it, I'd toyed with the idea of naming other kids after my fitness obsession. A couple names crossed my mind-- Miles. Brooks.

Boston.

A little less than a year ago, I started training for my first marathon. Eventually, the race ended up not happening due to an injury, but as I was logging 35 miles a week, the idea of running a marathon became less of a fantasy and seemed so tangible. So plausible. Something that would happen, rather than something that might happen. And it still will happen. And while I was daydreaming about that day, I fantasized about getting to coveted BQ.

And when I do get the BQ, I'll be there. Every child I have, a gift I give myself after is a half marathon. And I had already envisioned that the gift I'd give myself after my final pregnancy would be a marathon where I would get my BQ, and our entire family would go out to see me race.

My sister texted me this morning. "Don't run the Boston Marathon."

Yesterday, I felt so much anger. So much distress. Never in a million years would it even have crossed my mind to fear for the safety of my husband and children as they waited at a finish line to support me in something that is so dear to who I am. Yesterday changed that. It forever changed that.

But it won't stop me. Whoever did this will not be allowed to take anything more than what has already been taken.

My heart is in Boston today.

Eager Baby.

Quick background on my attitudes toward the healthcare system in terms of pregnancy and levels of intervention: My mom had C-sections with all four of her kids, I assumed I was set for the same fate. Then I went to college and read an article in an anthropology class about the high rates of C-sections when they were not completely necessary, and that got me thinking. Checked out "Misconceptions" by Naomi Wolf, read it cover to cover, and sought out the closest birthing center with my first pregnancy. Developed pre-eclampsia, was put on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy and had to be induced and delivered at the hospital. Second pregnancy, did a home birth and rocked the pants off it. This third pregnancy, I'm planning a home birth, and working with a new midwife (was a midwife at the birthing center I went to for my first pregnancy) who is more medically inclined than the midwife I worked with in my last pregnancy.

Follow all of that?

Anyway.

Friday morning, I woke up and started getting ready for work. I noticed some pretty intense, painful contractions, but I hopped in the shower anyway, figuring they were just Braxton Hicks and I was being a pansy. However, I noticed that I kept cranking the hot water over until it couldn't get any hotter to try to get some relief when one of these "pansy" contractions happened, and then I vomited. Uhhh... no bueno. As I'm fumbling around, trying to find clothes to wear to work (curse having a meeting scheduled so I couldn't go with my comfy maternity jeans that were allowed on Fridays!), the darling husband took the liberty of timing the contractions.

"They're three minutes apart. Don't go to work."

I explained that I HAD to go to work. The meeting, 30 minutes out of town, was important, and they were providing LUNCH. THAT was enough to go. I gasped out that reasoning, however, as I was rocking on my hands and knees trying desperately to get through the painful contraction.

At 35 weeks, this was not a good place to be in. The babe needs a little more time to cook.

I headed to work anyway, and barely made it up to my office (did you know it takes more than three minutes for me to get from my car up to my office? I do, now, because I had a contraction getting out of the car, and then again before I collapsed into my chair). As I sat, just minutes from having to get up and leave to go to the meeting, I started shaking uncontrollably from how uncomfortable I was. I called my supervisor and explained what was going on, and that perhaps I shouldn't go to the meeting ("It would be awkward if my water broke in your nice car"), and she told me to go home. So I did. And spent all day on the couch, on the ball, in the bathtub, anywhere and everywhere trying to get relief from the contractions. Sent a text to the midwife when they didn't die down by the early afternoon, and as she was out of state on vacation with her family, she decided to try to get me an appointment with the doctor she works through. When that wasn't going through, she wanted me to go to the ER to get checked.

I looked at Bobby. "Nope." I'd had enough false starts with my second babe that I was not about to go in and go through the hassle of all that to be told that this was nothing. In a few hours, it would die down, and I'd be fine.

Fast forward to the next morning, where I was still having contractions every three minutes and didn't sleep the night before, I finally conceded. Something was going on, and I was willing to go in even if it meant just finding out I had a UTI and had to go on an antibiotic or something. Anything to make the contractions stop was better than just dealing with them (oh, and the possibility that the baby was going to come too early. However, that didn't seem like such a threat, because of all the false starts with the last pregnancy).

The husband dropped the kids off at with friends, and came back to retrieve me. We went to the hospital, got checked in, and the nurse (who was super nice) got me hooked up to monitors and asked all the medical history stuff. No big deal.

Was monitored. Contracted. Did my thing, only did it without the guilt of being a terrible mother because I knew my kids were hanging out with their buddies playing outside instead of trying to climb on their grumpy mom who didn't want anyone to touch her.

After a while, the nurse came in with a cup and an order from the doctor. The cup was to pee in to test for a UTI. The order from the doctor was to give me a shot of Terbutaline. Having never heard of that before, the conversation went a lot like this:

Me: What is that?
Nurse: It's a smooth muscle relaxant. It should relax your muscles and stop the contractions.
Me: Are there any side effects? Will it do anything to him (the baby)?
Nurse: Well, it will probably make your heart race, so in turn, it will make his heart race.
Me: So it won't have any negative effects on him?
Nurse: Nope! And we usually give three doses, but the doctor just wants to try one injection and see how that works for you.
Me: I'd like to talk to my husband about it first and see if that's something we're comfortable with.

She left the cup, and as I went to do what preggos do best and attempt to aim a cup around a gigantic belly close enough to get urine in it, the husband pulled out his laptop and looked up the medication. Immediately, he came across this:

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is warning the public that injectable terbutaline should not be used in pregnant women for prevention or prolonged treatment (beyond 48-72 hours) of preterm labor in either the hospital or outpatient setting because of the potential for serious maternal heart problems and death.

Now, call me old fashioned, but I would think his mother potentially dying would probably have a negative affect on the babe. That could just be me thinking too highly of myself, though.

Terbutaline is approved to prevent and treat bronchospasm (narrowing of airways) associated with asthma, bronchitis, and emphysema. The drug is sometimes used off-label (an unapproved use) for acute obstetric uses, including treating preterm labor and treating uterine hyperstimulation. Terbutaline has also been used off-label over longer periods of time in an attempt to prevent recurrent preterm labor.

Again, this may be nit-picky, but I feel like there should be some kind of obligation by medical professionals to say something along the lines of, "Oh, bee tee dubs, this medicine we want to give you to treat this? Not even really supposed to, according to the FDA. No big deal, though, we do it all the time." I hear all these awful stories about how insurance won't cover treatment for people because it's too experimental, but they're hunky dorey with covering an intervention that the FDA doesn't even approve of? How is that consistent? (slash ethical?)

So when the nurse returned to retrieve the pee cup (hit my target, thank you very much), she asked what we had decided with the shot. I told her it was something I wasn't comfortable with.

Fast forward an hour or so, and she returned to check to see if I was progressing (I wasn't), and said that the urine test indicated it could be a UTI. So did I want to go ahead and get the antibiotic called into the pharmacy, or would I rather wait until they ran the 24 hour culture? As a person who isn't huge on taking antibiotics just for kicks and giggles, I told her I'd wait.

As she went through the discharge instructions, she discussed all the things I needed to look for to come back in again. One thing she stressed was that if I developed a fever, I needed to get in immediately, as babe #3's heart rate was measuring at the high end of normal, and a fever would increase his heart rate-- making him tachycardic, which would be dangerous. (This is the part where you remember back to when, just a couple hours prior, they were trying to inject me with a medication that they were pretty certain would increase my son's heart rate). She then told me that the doctor would call me the next day to let me know the results of the urine culture, and off we went. It was 2:00 p.m. Saturday, which I noted so I could anticipate about when to expect the phone call the next day.

Sunday evening rolls around, and while I was still contracting, they seemed to be easing off a bit in intensity. I was trying to hydrate like it was my job, and entertain myself on the couch, when I got a text message from the midwife letting me know she was back in town, and wanted to know how I was doing. I gave her an update, and told her I was still waiting to hear about the culture. She texted back to say they may not have it done yet, and she'd call the lab to see. She calls back a minute or two later and lets me know that my culture was totally normal, and I didn't need any antibiotics. She then told me something that reinforced why I absolutely adore my decision to use a midwife:

"You know, you could have gotten a virus. Or a bad night's sleep. Or you were dehydrated, and vomiting made you more dehydrated, and that kicked up the contractions. Or your body just likes to practice before you go into labor, as you saw with your last one. I don't know. I can't pretend to know, because the human body has surprised me so many times that I stopped making guesses when I just don't know."

I just don't know.

Instead of assigning diagnoses or reasons for why something is happening when there is no idea, wouldn't it be great if people in medical professions could just say "I don't know"? The doctor didn't know why I was contracting, and rather than go with that until there was a known reason, I was having medications thrown at me that could have negative effects on myself and my child. And for what reason? So I would be more confident in her practice? So she could feel like she was doing something in a situation she didn't feel she had control over? When I told my midwife about the terbutaline, she told me, "Oh, that stuff makes you feel crazy. I can't imagine how getting that would have made you feel any better than you were feeling in that moment." Awesome.

I am completely for hospital interventions to save people's lives. I am grateful for the experience I had in my first pregnancy, and while there are some things I would change about what happened (I had no idea internal monitoring meant they'd put a BARB in my son's HEAD, because nobody told me!), it was still a really great experience and I felt like we were well taken care of. I was sick and needed to be there to make sure both my son and I were healthy and safe. However, there comes a point where virtue turns to vice, and when we stop questioning the things that happen because we dare not approach the pedestal we've placed medical professionals upon, I think things get sloppy as a result of the lack of accountability.

In a the age of google, it's a privilege to be able to say, "Let me explore that first." With tablets and smartphones and tiny laptops, that information is so easy to get to anywhere we are. Let's take advantage. Let the accountability come back.

And in case you were wondering, the fact that this kiddo still can do a roundhouse ninja sequence in the midst of an intense contraction means he's pretty hardcore. I'm not too worried about him.

Honey Eatin' Almost Vegan

I promise-- I will blog regularly when I'm running again. The other day, I actually sat down and made out my workout schedule for after this baby arrives, and it made me feel so much better about life. Having that little sheet of paper with a plan written out helped me feel like I was still doing something, even though, technically, I'm not really doing anything (other than, you know, growing a human).

The doing nothing-ness was weighing on me. But I was so tired, and my body just felt heavy. I was irritable. Grumpy. My body hurt, and my brain felt cloudy. Ugh, pregnancy, right?

So the husband came home from work last week, the chitluns were in bed, and we decided to watch something on Netflix. Unable to find something that wasn't depressing/raunchy/violent, we settled on Forks Over Knives, which I'd wanted to watch for a while.

Not the best thing to watch after you've just gone grocery shopping.

The husband and I have been pretty good eaters. For a while, I was even vegetarian, and gave it up when I ran into complications with my first pregnancy, attributing it to the lack of protein. I've gone for long spurts of no sugar, and then gone back to sugar, and then off, and then back-- and I know I feel better when I'm not eating it, but I used pregnancy as an excuse. I'm so uncomfortable and giant anyway, why not, right? It's one of those life pleasures that I can still enjoy when so much else is taken off the table (like running. Or wearing clothing that fits and doesn't make me feel like a sack of fabric). The husband has a degree in Exercise Science, and he was in the process of applying for graduate school in Health and Psychology of Physical Activity. We ate only whole grains, lots of fruits and veggies, no trans fats or corn syrup. Doing pretty well.

But then we learned about The China Study.

And there went dairy. And meat.

As soon as the movie was over, I looked over at the husband and said, "Well, that's that. Let's do this." We both knew we needed a boost, something to get us back to eating what and how we knew we should. We'd gotten lazy with both of us working and never seeing each other, having two toddlers, and my pregnancy. So the next day, we stocked up on almond milk, more fruits and veggies, and beans, hoping to stick to the information we were reminded of regarding the benefits of sticking to a whole foods, plant based diet.

I had some anxiety. I knew the first three days after giving up sugar are the hardest, and I had become pretty dependent on my chocolate fix. But it was actually surprisingly easy. I noticed a difference after the first day-- I felt satiated longer, my mood was better, and while I still was sleepy at the end of the day, I didn't feel heavy. I didn't feel cloudy. I didn't run out of patience at bed time.

My joints even felt better.

I have been so surprised by how much better I feel over all. Prone to depression and anxiety, which seems to heighten with pregnancy hormones, I feel a lot like I've taken a Prozac-- I just feel level, normal, better able to see the happy. The stress is gone. The irritability is gone. The desire to slap someone is gone.

I feel awesome.

I'd heard from fellow runners that giving up dairy has done wonders for their performance, and I was considering doing it for that reason. Since I'm not able to run right now, it seemed silly to do it until after the baby is born. But if I had known that making this change was going to be such a boost to my mood, I would have done it long ago. Sticking to eating this way has proven so far to be very easy, because I'm so motivated to keep feeling this great. Thirty-four weeks pregnant and feeling great? Yes, please.

My concerns about the kids were that they would not adjust well to eating this way. We haven't been terrible with what they eat, but they do like their cheese and yogurt. The almost-three-year-old also drank his weight in milk every day, which was pretty much his only intake. But they have actually done so well with the transition-- they eat the stuff we're eating, and they love it. I made a giant salad, and actually thought, "There is now way I'm going to be able to eat all of this." It worked out well, though, because my little birds were at my feet, begging for another bite. SALAD.

It's wonderful.

I have also made these a couple times, and they've been a hit with the chitluns (and the adults-- a batch doesn't last a day in our house). Easy peasy, and so great to just grab and go!

No Bake Peanut Butter Balls

2 C raw oats
3/4 C peanut butter (all natural-- we also used almond butter in a batch, and SO YUMMY)
1/4 C honey
1/4 C flaxseed
1 t vanilla
1 C craisins (or chocolate chips, or raisins, or nuts, or whatever you want)

Mix all together in a bowl. Put in the fridge for 30 minutes to harden. Mold mixture into balls. Ready to eat right away!

Love it. I'm feeling good about all of this.

Ahhhhh.

Courage.

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.