On Sunday I mowed the lawn and felt very awesome about my ability to get things done...until I went to put the mower away and pain shot through my low back. Yes, I threw my back out mowing the lawn. Which is pretty pathetic, I have to say. I'm usually very careful standing, lifting and changing positions (the little bridge-hula maneuver I do to turn over in bed is stupid-looking but great back insurance), so the idea that I could hurt myself walking around my front yard offends me. This is my second pain flare-up in three weeks. I've already started chiropractic care, but I'm seriously considering a buying a maternity belt. Because I have given up on the ridiculous notion that my core is capable of supporting itself. I have also abandoned all hope of ever feeling sexy again. At least for the next few years.
I'm very at odds with my body now. The pain certainly isn't helping, but mostly it's the weight. At 29 weeks, I've gained 25 pounds—and I feel like a complete failure. Because as practically every pregnancy resource will tell you, 25 pounds is an acceptable amount of weight to have gained...at 40 weeks. I know that 25 pounds is the bottom of the "healthy" range for a full term pregnancy, but the idea that I'm "over" where I should be is hard to shake. And I worry about how much bigger I'm going to get.
The receptionist at Rob's office thinks I'm "tiny" for having about two more months to go. I managed to stop myself from blurting out, "It's a total optical illusion! You should see me naked!"
I may have to become something of a nudist over the next ten weeks. Getting dressed is becoming a lot more challenging. Thank heaven for long, loose maxi skirts! I wanted to avoid wearing maternity clothes as much as possible this pregnancy, and my body seems to agree with that goal at least, as I've already outgrown my maternity jeans. I tried on a pair of maternity jeggings this week, hoping the "-eggings" part would mean stretchy comfort for my lower half. Alas, no. I just ended up with a pregnant muffin top. NOT a good look.
The baby seems to be slowing down a bit, movement-wise. She doesn't startle me now, or wake me up with her punches. Naturally, instead of being grateful for the break, I worry that this means something is wrong. I still feel her move a little during day, but she seems to hit her sweet spot in the evenings. She's most active while I'm resting in my crazy nest of 300 pillows and Rob is reading out loud.
Almost every night, Rob and I have some version of the conversation where we just stare at each other and marvel: "There's going to be a baby." I don't know why it keeps hitting us like this. But I still sometimes gape at Westley and think, We MADE him. And now there's going to be another, slightly (very?) different one. How is that even possible?
How do our bodies manage do this crazy thing? With relatively little help from us? If I think about it too hard, it doesn't seem real anymore.