I’m having one of those days today. Went to the pool for the first time this pregnancy and almost had a panic attack because I’m sure I just look fat rather then 19 weeks pregnant. And the skirt I’m trying to wear is an under-bump style and the elastic keeps rolling/folding (the same way that too-small clothes did when I was an overweight person) and making me feel awful about myself. Booo 😦
The blog is rapidly approaching real-time.
The buffer that I created of a month between my real-world happenings and when the corresponding post goes live has all but eroded.
And I think I’m going to be okay with it. I think I’m mostly doing okay.
In case I wasn’t clear, I was having some real issues with anxiety for all of the early part of this pregnancy. That over-whelming worry that something was wrong, or would go wrong was just, well … over-whelming me.
Anxiety is a bitch. And unless you’ve really experienced it, is super hard to explain. Here’s a tip; being told to ‘calm down’ is not calming. Being told ‘everything will be okay’ does not actually reassure the person with anxiety. And telling them to ‘just breathe’ may very well result in you ‘just being throat-punched’.
People who suffer anxiety are most certainly not dumb. We understand and are usually more frustrated and upset with ourselves than you could ever possibly imagine because sometimes we aren’t capable of just breathing, calming down or being confident that everything will be okay.
But we are working on it. All. The. Time.
For me, the constant worrying has dropped back to a totally normal level of pregnant-mum concern. Stuff may still go wrong, but it probably won’t.
Today I am nearly 19 weeks pregnant. That’s nearly half way. Blueberry kicks, and wriggles and has been perfect on all of the scans we’ve had. I am healthy and happy and still doing all the things I did before.
I am okay. But not everyone is. Be kind. Always. Because you never know what other people have going on.
I made a mental decision a while back that me being pregnant wasn’t going to be about my weight, or my body or any sort of struggle around those things.
For a health and fitness blogger, I just really don’t care that much in the scheme of growing a human.
I do absolutely respect people who maintain their super athletic bodies during pregnancy. I love people who continue to train and be bad-ass heavy-lifting, marathon-running gym girls right up until the day their little human/s arrive.
But it’s not the be-all and end-all of my life, and certainly won’t be of this pregnancy. Here’s the low-down of what I’ll find acceptable for myself during this pregnancy:
- I’m going to gain weight. I have already. I’m okay with it.
- I aim to eat well, and healthfully, in a balanced way during this pregnancy.
- I aim to stay training for the whole pregnancy IN SOME FORM. I aim to adapt that as I go and be fluid and gentle in my approach.
- I’m going to come back to training IN SOME FORM as soon as I can after the birth of Blueberry. I aim to be understanding of my body and gentle in my approach.
And let’s be honest, it’s my third baby. I have a history of previously being obese – my body is pretty darn keen to puff back out and chill in the chubby-zone. These first few month, there has been a lot of this:
I can’t say that it makes me happy. But it doesn’t worry me.
I have a meeting with a nutritionist this week just to chat about changes I can make to my pre-pregnancy diet that may better suit the changes in my body and hormone profile at this time in my life.
I’m still training, but at the moment that comprises two Spin/RPM classes a week and 2 small weights sessions with my weights dropped back considerably. And I’m okay with that at the moment.
So hey, if your following my blog hoping to see a girl stay super-lean, super small and bad-ass strong during a pregnancy – I apologise in advance. I’m just me. Doing my thing. As best as I can for the Blueberry and myself. And if it’s not pretty, or lean, or even particularly motivating as a fitness goal – I’m totally okay with that. You can catch me on the flipside when I get to work earning it all back with my three little people in tow.
But if you are keen to stick around, I’ll let you know how it all goes in the real world.
Thanks as always,
I’ve been slack in not writing for a while. Which is hilarious in a way because I’ve been delaying these posts anyway so no-one would ever have known unless I told you. But I am telling you. I’ve been hiding.
I keep thinking I should write. I should spell out the magic of this pregnancy in week 4 with the boobs so sore I cried, week 5 with that one day I felt like I was on a boat and probably vomited a million times and all of the other tiny nuances of being up the duff.
But I didn’t.
Because mostly I am still just afraid. I live in a bubble of barely-bearable fear that one day I’ll go to the toilet and discover a bleed. Or even worse, I won’t. And that we’ll go to a scan at some point in the future and the ultrasound technician will have to tell me that my tiny human has stopped growing. It’s a gnawing fear that I know I should ignore, but it lives there in the pit of my stomach alongside the tiny blueberry-sized creature whom I love already.
The thing is, I am having a pretty darn easy pregnancy. Some slightly sore boobs, one day where I spewed and the occasional bit of feeling erky. And then these things will disappear for days at a time. These tiny clues that my body is changing and adapting go away, and I panic that a viable pregnancy will go away with them.
There is the double-edged sword in my life that is pregnancy forums and secret facebook pages. Because we haven’t (and won’t) announce for quite a while, there is a secret community of fellow secretly-knocked-up women who convene in facebook land and can complain together of our aches and pains, our plans and tests, our thoughts and fears. All of us are in the ‘pregnant but not publically pregnant’ phase together. It’s nice. And comforting mostly. Except of course, that 1 in 5 pregnancies end in miscarriage.
It feels like every day, I log in and there is a post from someone else saying “Sorry Ladies, looks like I’ll be leaving the group…” and a short explanation of how/why they’ve realised that they aren’t going to carry a healthy baby this pregnancy. Every time, I cry. I realise how incredible the odds are. And like the cannons firing in the Hunger Games, I am both filled with sadness that someone is leaving our ranks and relief that I have made it another day.
Today I am 8 weeks and 4 days pregnant. Only 220 days to go 🙂
With love and the absence of cannon-fire,
I’m sad tonight. Sometimes I forget that I have readers. I get sad and think instinctively, “I should write about that” but then get trapped thinking there is no funny way to say something and what a
shitty downer post that’d be to read.
Sometimes there just isn’t any wit. Sometimes I’m just sad or tired or hurting or sick or irrationally emotional.
And that’s okay. I need to write more even though sometimes it looks and fees like someone is listening. And like sometimes my life isn’t perfect.
You are all now my imaginary friends.
I shall call you Gumbo. Gumbo, my imaginary friend.
21st of July, 2015
I need to stop peeing on things.
Okay. So not things. Sticks. I need to stop peeing on sticks.
Trying to conceive has truly turned a corner into crazy. I knew it was starting when I found the ovulation prediction kits and peed on those. I think I got the information I needed out of them. And I think it made me feel a little bit less helpless.
But now that I’m in that awful wait where I may or may not be pregnant, I’ve started almost obsessively doing pregnancy tests. NOW, contrary to my actions, I’m not an idiot. I realise that this is the first month of us trying to have a baby. And that even really good pregnancy tests couldn’t pick up a positive yet. AND that realistically there is very little chance that I will be pregnant. It makes me feel slightly more in control.
I may or may not have peed on all the pregnancy tests I have. There were a lot.
They are all negative.
And that’s okay.
There is always another month. I can pee on things next month.
Eww. And sorry,
THE DECISION – 21st of June, 2015
Something strange and wondrous has been happening for more than a year. Something I didn’t expect and wouldn’t have predicted.
I was getting clucky for a third baby.
Yup. A third.
We’d never even really discussed it, just assumed that Oz would be our last baby and just basked in the fun and craziness that is our two lovely boys. Oz was an easy baby in lots of ways, and such a happy-go-lucky soul that raising him is a joy. And Mr H is such a little man already at 8 and so smart and thoughtful that life is pretty easy. But somewhere in my brain, the thought of MORE babies was gnawing at me.
I thought it was just me. Just some of the ‘crazy’ that I’m happy to accept as part of my personality. I’ll always love tiny babies, the same way I freak-out with pure joy if I get to pat a puppy or hold a kitten. It never meant that I NEEDED more pets, just that I love them. But I thought it was only me.
It was The Captain who actually brought it up first. He’s an amazing dad. That awesome balance of stern and structured and silly and conspiratorial. And the thought had been gnawing at him in the silence too.
But kids are expensive! Especially when you value good education and good education (IN MY OPINION) is very hard to find cheaply. I spend a lot of money on it, because I value it. And that’s my choice. So what if a baby #3 meant giving that up? Do we not educate a #3 the same way we have H and Oz? Or pull everyone out to a cheaper education? ARGH – it hurt my brain.
But kids are AMAZING! We love our family. We love our boys. We love raising little humans into bigger humans. And what we kept coming back to was the over-arching thought:
In my elderly years, or on my death-bed, will I think to myself “Thank God I didn’t have more children. That money I saved was totally worth it.”?
So we decided that Baby #3 is a thing. A thing we are doing. At some point soon we are going to start trying for another baby.
And I am excited and delighted and terrified.
Pretty much just being a mum in a nutshell.